Shadows and Feathers
by Jaden Anderson
Summary: A love story for Anders and Hawke in a slightly AU retelling of DA2. Includes a BAMFY Anders, a non-Chantry boy Sebastian, and a hardened Alistair brought into DA2. Hawke escapes Ferelden - her brother newly recruited by Duncan, and her sister dead at the hands of an ogre. There, she falls in with one apostate and one exiled Grey Warden.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Shadows and Feathers

Characters: Hawke and the entire co.

Summary: In the thick of woods, a young Hawke meets a man clothed in strange robes, running from the templars. There begins the story of Anders and Marian Hawke. Partly AU and will include Legacy and Mark of the Assassin as major plot devices.

A/N: This is a story that I need to write - after the way the cards fell for Anders in "Through the Looking Glass", I needed to write something where he's a bit more pleasant, not much of course, otherwise he wouldn't be Anders haha. This story will be updated every two to three days. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

-Hawke-

**Dragon Age 9:28 The Wilds**

* * *

A forest as ancient as the hills surrounds her.

Trees - both alive and dead - reach into the heavens above, their far-reaching branches embracing one another. The canopy severs her from the sun and casts her into an unbroken shadow for as far as her eye can see. The air is still, the stark wind she is accustomed to battling in the open fields lost to the shield of these trees. Vines drape the length of the trunks and sweep across the forest floor, dragging her gaze up to the thick canopy.

Her heel comes down in the understory - dogwood, holly, mushrooms, and moss - and settles near a trunk as wide as she. The plants show signs of disturbance, cracked branches and nibbled leaves - even the bark has been picked at. Signs that all lead to the same conclusion.

She wraps the vine firmly around her wrist and props her foot in the nearest knot, gnarled into the wood of the tree. As easy as climbing stairs for her. Most of her life has been spent in these trees, after all. She knows them as well as her bow, every nick and grain. Up she spirals, her fingers barely finding a new notch by the time her feet catch up.

The third story of branches - that's where she pauses. Any higher and she risks snapping one and falling to her death. A long way down, one she doesn't intend to experience. The branch creaks under her weight, bobbing with her steps. But it will hold.

From up here, she can see further into the forests. And from here, she can keep a better watch for any dangers. The Wilds are not a pleasant place after all. Chasind have been spotted recently along with these nefarious creatures she heard described as darkspawn. Never has she seen one of those and her heart races from the thought of it. The local talk spins wild tales of such creatures. To see one, though, well, it's a desire she would never admit to her mother. It's challenge enough to convince her to let Hawke hunt - the promise of feeding their family is too great.

The rumors they speak of these creatures tie to an Order known as the Grey Wardens. Hawke loves these tales. Heroic men and women sacrificing their lives for something so glorious. War, honor - it all sounds like a fairy tale to her. One that her mother clucks under her breath about every time she speaks of such things. In the thick of night, she whispers such desires to Carver, to find a life beyond Lothering, beyond the simple medial tasks of providing for a family, bearing the burden that fell upon her as the eldest. All because some templar had stolen their father from them. Carver shares in her dreams. In fact, they'd spoken recently about joining the military service together - recruits are coming to Lothering in the next month, or so rumor has it. It'd break their mother's heart, but it's something they both need to do. Not Bethany, though. She simply desires a free life.

One day, she'd be so brave. She'd show what she is capable of... one day.

But until then -

She slides her bow from her back and notches it silently. Not moments ago, her eyes fell upon a fawn, stooped over as it drinks from a forest pool. She draws the string; her lips providing the anchor, and takes a steadying breath. She exhales, about to release when a low shout and the assault of snapping twigs startles the deer.

She utters a low curse and corrects her aim, leading the creature, hoping to save the kill, when it vanishes into a thick cover of vines.

Another low curse spills from her lips and she sheathes the weapon before slanting dangerously out over the branch to see what the commotion is.

Her narrowed eyes find a young man, her age - maybe even a few years older, twenty perhaps - dodging around the thick tree trunks, hopping over the twined understory and heading directly her way. His pace is frantic, chin constantly jerking back over his shoulder.

Her fingers grasp a nearby branch and she hangs out further, wondering what could possibly be chasing this man. His clothing is strange; a long robe that sweeps around his feet as he moves. His hair falls around his face in a furious tangle, as knotted as the branches that surround them.

Her line of sight shifts behind him. She expects a bear, or Chasind, not the small battalion of templars that chase after him. Anger coils in her stomach and she drops down to the next branch. How she _hates _templars. It's because of them her father had been torn from their family, because of them they are always hiding. Hawke would die before she let them have Bethany.

"Hey!" she hisses from her veiled spot above the chase.

The mage passes beneath her.

"Hey!" she calls again, struggling to keep her voice quiet enough that the templars don't hear her.

He stumbles, his hands falling against the trunk to steady him.

"Up here!" she beckons, sliding to the next lower level again.

The mage pauses, his eyes darting back to the templars.

"Hurry up!" She drops down to the understory, her feet absorbed into the plush moss. "Go on! Get up there."

She doesn't wait to see if he does. She drops to the ground, scrounging for whatever rocks or heavy debris she can find. She piles it into her jerkin and turns, her fingers digging into the knots and heaving herself back up. The mage has already scrambled to the first level and is quickly making his way to the second. Her steps pause to allow her a moment to marvel. Not even Carver could keep up to her in the trees, but this mage might even give her a run for her money.

When he reaches the third level, he finally stops and turns to stare down at her. She presses a finger to her lips, ensuring to climb cautiously now, her steps silent against the wood.

She stops at the second level and draws a few rocks from her pocket - big enough to notch in her bow. She pulls the string back, touching it to her lips once more and waits.

The templars are right beneath them, the hushed murmurs of their voices plucking their own thread of fear within her. She knows what they are capable of and the threat of them turning on her family stills her fingers. But her father's words breathe through her mind - mages should be free. If this had been Bethany, what would she do?

She exhales and releases the stone, listening to the faint whistle as it whips through the air. It's not that the templars notice, thank the Maker, it's the clatter of the stone in the bushes.

The templars bark at one another and tear off into that direction. She waits until they are within distance of that rock before releasing another, further than the first, directing their path away from them.

She launches three more, each increasing in distance until she's out of ammunition. But it doesn't matter - the templars are gone.

The branch shudders beneath her and with a sharp gasp, she spins around, her fingers gripping at the trunk for balance. Eyes, warm like the brandy her father used to drink, hover right before her - long, pale eyelashes fanning against his sharp cheekbones when he blinks. He flashes a devastating smile at her, small dimples forming in his cheeks.

"Thanks!" he chuckles. "But why didn't you just kill them?" His arms shifts over her shoulder, fingering the feathered arrows strapped to her back.

"Dead templars would cause trouble. We don't need them in our village," she murmurs with a shrug.

He presses closer to her, his eyes widening as though this thought intrigues him. "You don't like templars?"

Her face twists, her nose scrunching. The press of his body pushes her flat against the trunk. "T-They killed my father," she admits, her eyes widening with the admission. Never would she tell someone such a thing. There's only one reason templars kill.

"Your father was a mage," this man states gently, without question.

She nods, her fingers fumbling against the bark as she strives for a branch. He's much too close, uncomfortably so.

"Thank you," he finally murmurs. Her breath catches when his fingers curl over a stray hair and tuck it behind her ear. "Not many people would have done what you just did."

She half shrugs, her eyes darting anywhere other than his. She chokes out a contorted rambling, something that she intends to be a sentence. Instead, it's an assortment of sounds barely comprehensible. "Um... it was nothing. People tend not to look up."

He chuckles softly. "Still. Allow me to thank you properly."

She startles at the sudden feel of his lips slanting over hers. Hands slide down her back, the light press of his fingers holding her still against him. His tongue draws along the swell of her lower lip before delving into her mouth until they meet in a sudden tangle, twisting around one another in a wild dance.

"Marian!" her name rings through the trees; her sister, calling for her. Some part of her hears it, but instead of responding, her fingers climb the length of this mage's arm, settling against his shoulder.

His jaw tilts and he deepens the kiss. He tastes of sweet wine and common Ferelden stew. She should stop - if Bethany saw this, she'd never let it go. But her thoughts are lost to the desperate thump of her heart.

He breaks from the kiss, waiting for her eyes to open before speaking again. "Thank you. Who knows, maybe we'll meet again," he chortles before dropping from the branch and vanishing into the thicket.

Hawke's breath falls in a shudder, her stomach uncoiling. Suddenly, hunting didn't seem so important compared to the tingling in her lips and fingers.

"Marian!" her sister calls again.

Her throat quivers as she swallows the taste of him. A soft, simple sigh lifts through the forest and with shaking hands, she navigates her way down to the understory, landing in front of Bethany.

The girl lets out a started shout, her narrowed eyes glaring. "How many times must I ask you not to do that!"

Hawke's fingers fumble at her lips, covering the small smile curving them.

"Come on, Mother needs to go to the market. She says she gave you her purse in case you needed string or arrows."

She nods, her hand falling to her side. Only there's no lump; no satchel strung to her belt. Her chest constricts, her throat closing with horror. "Andraste's tits!" she raves, suddenly whipping a rock in the direction the mage had run.

Bethany turns to her with startled eyes.

"He stole our purse!" she hisses, striking out at the nearest tree. "_Maybe we'll meet again_," she mocks angrily. "I should have let the templars have him! Bastard..."

Bethany staggers back. "Templars? Sister, what's going on?"

Hawke groans and drops her head against the withered bark of the tree. "Nothing. Let's get you out of here." She pushes way from the tree, her teeth biting down on the inside of her cheek. "Mother will be furious. Let's just go."

* * *

**Dragon Age 9:30 Ostagar**

* * *

Perched up high, she can see all of Ostagar from here - from the hundreds and hundreds of tents dotting the ground, to the King's enclave, to the attraction that actually brought her up here - the raging bonfire that always seems to host the Grey Wardens. At any point in time, there appears to be at least a couple seated around it, their mugs raised in salute to one another as they pound back the ale and more food than she could have ever provided for her family.

Her commander had given strict orders that they are not to be disturbed by any of the army. Them, or the Ash Warriors, who Hawke can see just as clearly off to the right from the Wardens. She'd gone against those orders once to speak to the Ash Warrior leader - as pointless as that had been. He ignored her, simple as that. To them, the army is a bunch of people playing soldier, just because they apparently haven't dedicated their entire lives to war. Well - war may not have been Hawke's life, but it certainly hadn't been peace either. With two apostate mages in the family, they'd always been ready for battle. The Wardens seem nicer at least. One had gone out of his way to speak to her over a week ago, days before the second wave of darkspawn. She liked him - Peter, his name was. A solid, calm man that had been impressed with her marksmanship. Never had he seen a truer bow, he told her. Each day he came to watch her practice, offering what little advice was needed. His fingers had grazed over the back of her arm as he corrected an oversight - due mainly to his distraction - and her stomach had responded in kind.

Two nights ago, after the army stumbled back to the fortress, having defeated the second incursion by the skin of their teeth, she'd sought him out, only to find he'd fallen. It's that reason that brings her up here, high above the camps, almost to the sky itself. Just her luck. The second man to ever interest her and death takes him. The first - well, there really isn't any point thinking about that thief mage from two years prior. Not that her brain could turn him out even if she wants. Most nights she spent recalling the press of his lips, to her own disappointment.

Voices draw her attention from her veil of thoughts and down the long distance to a gathering around a table. She recognizes the king and his familiar strut as he approaches. The words aren't distinguishable but the tones are. The one next to him, his father in law, appears agitated. But before a full out argument can develop, another two appear. The first man, Hawke's seen before. She'd whispered a snickering laugh to Carver when pointing out his big, bushy beard. It reminded her dearly of her father's and how she used to muss it up, puffing it up until it mimicked a bird's nest. Mother hated when she did that, but her father always rewarded her with a laugh, tossing her up in the air when she was a child, or ruffling her hair as she grew up.

As for the second, he looks a stern man, his narrowed eyes watching everything that moves around him. His armor is quite heavy, thick with folds of steel that not even the armies wore. And embossed across the chest are what appears to be two laurel leaves. Oh, she knows that heraldry. Any Fereldan knows the Cousland family. She's heard talk of their amiable qualities; quick with a sword, firm with their politics, and devastatingly handsome faces. Seeing as the eldest Cousland is currently out scouting the woods for more darkspawn, that would make this the youngest and unmarried one. Not that she's interested in such things. It's just always good to know all one can about the people you meet. Information never harmed anyone.

The two newcomers - Grey Wardens the both, she'd wager - come to a stop at the table and join in the discussions. Hands are waved, heated words are shared, glares, curses, and snarls... Either way it seems to be a typical political meeting. And it seems safe to assume another wave of darkspawn are on their way. Her heart sinks with that.

Two years ago, she longed for nothing more than to lay eyes on such a creature, to join in such glorious battles. But in those two years, in the company of the army, she's come to realize that war is not glorious. And there is nothing pleasant about these creatures. Being an archer, she always fights from afar. And it's the hardest thing ever to see Carver take to the front lines. Thankfully, he's always come back. But she dreads the day he doesn't.

A man in mage robes presses toward the table and even she scoffs under her breath. From up high, he looks very similar to the thief mage she'd been ever so lucky to meet.

This meeting bores her. She came to find time apart; to think about Peter, but this council keeps distracting her.

Hands placed firmly against the stone wall, she pushes to her feet, ensuring she has her balance before creeping along the edge. It'd been quite the challenge to get up here but getting down is always easier. Falling is one option, but she'd rather that doesn't happen.

Her footing slips and with a sharp intake she crouches low, her fingers clutching at the mortar in hopes of saving her balance. _Foolish_. Focus on where to step presently, not the end of the path.

An eternity passes but finally she drops down to the main level and rights her jerkin, straightening it down over her hips. She's about to take her first step toward camp when an arm appears from nowhere, gripping into the neck of her jerkin and swinging her around. Her back is pressed rigidly against the wall and suddenly she's staring into dark eyes, hovering in that stern face she'd admired previously.

"Is it a habit of yours to spy on King Cailan's council meetings?" he demands in a rough voice, his lips drawn back into a severe sneer.

_Maker_.

"What?" she laughs breathlessly. "Spy?"

His fist tightens in her jerkin and he gives a good shake, her head about to roll right off her shoulders. "Do not play coy with me, woman."

She still manages to snicker, though that seems to upset him further. "Do you actually think someone can spy from all the way up there? Well then, I must have the hearing of a mabari."

His eyes trail up to the top of the wall, dozens of feet above them. "Then what were you doing up there?"

Her eyes tighten, her face scrunching with irritation. "Last I checked, I don't need permission to _walk around_."

"You weren't walking around," he hisses. "You were overlooking a very private meeting."

"And I heard ever so much, _all the way up there_," she reminds him.

In retrospect, the conversation might have taken a better spin if she could have somehow kept the sarcasm from her tone, but being shaken about like a child does little for her nerves.

"If you weren't listening, then why not just leave when you saw us there?"

"Why should I?" she bristles. "I was there first. Why didn't you leave?"

He sputters, his lips moving soundlessly before finally finding his words. "You expect the king to _move_ his meeting simply because you were there first?"

She shrugs, brushing his hands off now that they've loosened from her jerkin. "All I'm saying is, if you are so concerned about security, perhaps you should have checked to make sure you were all alone before initiating said _private_ conversation."

He steps away from her, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just… return to your camp."

She dislikes being given orders, even her commanders know that, but she obeys because that's the way of the army. This one, however, has no authority over her and she straightens to her full height, her shoulders tightening. "I will eventually," she snaps. "Perhaps _you_ should return to your Grey Wardens."

Cousland blinks blankly at her. "You do know who you're speaking with, right?"

She shrugs, pulling her jerkin down once more. "I know who I'm _not_ speaking with and that's my Commander, ser, Cousland or not. Do have yourself a good night," she forces an unnatural smile before turning and stalking off.

-v-

Hawke bounds back to the section of land held by her battalion, her intention to find Carver. Words bubble from her lips the moment she spots him, perched against their tent. She hasn't seen him for a few days, what with the battle and all the chaos. He turns toward her, those eyes the Hawke's are famous for practically glowing under the veil of night. Her words fall short, lips stilling at the sight of him. There's something different, certainly. He seems harder almost.

"What?" she breathes softly, her voice swallowed by the heralding cheer of the Grey Wardens.

Carver's gaze jumps to the bonfire and if she isn't mistaken, a slight smile curves his lips. "I've joined them."

"Joined who?" she questions.

When he shifts back toward her, he almost appears sad. "They've given me a few moments to explain this to you, then I have to go."

"Go?" Hawke repeats. "Go where?"

Carver pushes off the tent and stalks the distance between them. "After the last assault, I ran into a man named Duncan. And I offered my sword to them."

"_Who_!" Hawke snaps, tiring of the wordplay.

"The Grey Wardens."

Three words, only three, yet her knees tremble. They'd spoken of this so often in the past - the glorious battles of the Grey Wardens, defeating darkspawn and archdemons. They'd whispered their desires to one another in the thick of the night, to become such a warrior. But Hawke never thought -

"Carver," she whispers. "What about mother and Bethany?"

His hands fall on her shoulders and after a moment's hesitation, he draws her into his chest. The two have always been close, leaning on one another to protect their family from the templars, their swordplay developing a tighter bond than either of them has with Bethany.

"You'll take care of them," he says. "You always have. After the war, you'll return home and shoulder the weight once more. That life isn't meant for me."

It isn't meant for either of them, but it feels selfish for Hawke to even think such a thing.

"I need to make my own place in life and the Grey Wardens were eager to accept me."

"But-"

He shakes his head, the thick fringe of charcoal hair, so similar to her own, tumbling before his eyes. "It's done, sister. I've come to say goodbye." He wraps his arms around her and breathes in her ear - "Take care of them."

And then he's gone.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for the great responses everyone! So I thought now that we're in Chapter 2, I'll offer a little insight as the game plan :D I always hated the relationship between rogue/warrior Hawke and Carver. I figure - trained together, raised together, they'd have a bit more of an amiable relationship. Plus, I like Carver :D especially when he isn't being a tool. So! This is what we get. I also always wondered why Duncan wouldn't look for Grey Warden recruits within the army. Surely there'd be people of quality there haha. So now we have Carver apart of the Ferelden team, woo!

And I also always wished we had a little more information in regards to Ostagar for Hawke (again, warrior or rogue lol). So I went with that as well. I hope you all enjoy it! It won't be much longer till we reach Kirkwall, though.

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Chapter 2

_Oh, Maker._

This incursion is so much larger than the last. Hawke's knees tremble, the string wavering against her lips as she draws her first arrow. Fire dots the land, pouring closer and closer as the darkspawn grow nearer. Even from her vantage point - the bridge between Ostagar and Tower of Ishal - she can see them. Hurlocks, genlocks, emissaries, and, _Maker_, ogres - beasts large enough that they can snatch her out of the air. And how she wishes she could see anything but. Only two years ago she'd dreamed of this. _Foolish_. Now, she will consider herself lucky if she even makes it out alive.

The cloak of darkness surrounding them does little to hide their twisted faces. Sharp teeth glint in the firelight, gnarled heads twisted on their bodies, grotesque claws swiping at the air. And the sounds they make - she wavers. Shrieks and screams that rend the eerie silence of the army.

From beneath the bridge, incense curls upward, sinking into her lungs as she breathes in the aromas. The Chant of Light rises, from the sisters and mothers pacing the lines, praying to the Maker to protect them. Hawke tips her head back to the sky, wincing when lightning streaks across the thick clouds. The Maker doesn't appear to be listening. Hasn't for a while, she guesses.

For a moment the horde pauses and the tension spikes. Hawke repositions her bow, her breath ghosting over the string. And then the call is made, war cries bellowed, horns blown. She doesn't think, simply releases the first shot. It's lost to the darkness, but she trusts it finds its mark. Her arrows always do.

She releases the string again and again, her arrows whistling through the air along with a cloud of others, flying straight and true to their target.

The first lines fall under their assault and it's only then the mabari's rear up and rush out into the field. Hawke spares a brief thought for her own mabari, Dread, tucked away safely at home and she's thankful. The snarls reach even her ears as the hounds tear into the darkspawn, teeth shredding the festered, pallid skin. She swallows past the lump that forms in her throat, imagining the rancid taste of their blood. Shivering, she turns away from the sight and continues to pick off those within range.

Another high pitched whistle takes to the air. Have the darkspawn archers fired off their own attack? Eyes search the sky for a sea of arrows flowing their way, but there's nothing.

"Look out!" someone bellows. Hawke's eyes shift from the battlefield. Arms wave in the air, and a man covered in silver steel screams her name. It's not until the softly glowing light touches upon raven hair that she realizes it's Carver. He points at something and she turns.

Time all but stops. A boulder twice the size of her streaks through the air. She means to move, scramble back, dive out of the oncoming path, and just as she intends to, thick arms ensnare her waist. The air streams through her ears, the line of archers blurring as she's whipped around. Her fingers clutch for dear life around the arms that hold her.

Even yanked from the ground, she feels the world burst around her. An explosion erupts around them, yet she hears the soft curse of a familiar voice in her ear. Together, they spill to the ground as large gauntleted hands shield her head from the onslaught of rubble.

When finally the body moves, Hawke's chin lifts and she finds herself staring into dark, angry eyes, brows drawn sharply down with an air of irritation; as though she causes his distress. It's a look she's worn often in the presence of her brother.

"Pay attention," the soldier snaps - Cousland again, before darting back to his feet. He hardly glances down at her before streaking off, barking an order to her brother and some other Grey Warden. If there's ever a soldier she _wouldn't_ expect to save her life, it would certainly be him. Especially after their first introduction.

Hawke trails Carver's outline for as long as she can and that's when she notices the debris strewn across the bridge, in pieces larger than she. Where she'd been standing now lays a yawning chasm, vanishing down to the depths below.

Shaking, she pushes to her feet and snatches her fallen bow from the ground, restringing it, and returning to battle. Though from the numerous bodies strewn across the now hobbled bridge, she is one of the few.

-v-

The sweet tang of blood spills over her lips. The notched tip takes her in the upper shoulder, rupturing her jerkin, and spins her face first into the dirt. Her fingers scrape against the blood soaked soils in her struggle to rise but her trembling arms fail. What little dust she can see in the thick of night, rises in small plumes with her hurried breathes. Her chest enflames, pure agony uncurling within. She can't recall falling from the bridge, yet at some point she had. What she _does_ recall are the thick, meaty digits of an ogre plucking her from the bridge and _squeezing _until a sharp snap rose amongst the chaos.

Hot air pools at the back of her neck, so putrid her stomach clenches with the threat of spilling what little contents she holds. It's the raspy sound of the darkspawn's grating breath she hears and her uninjured hand fishes within her jerkin for one of the many daggers she carries for this purpose exactly. Death is something she faces daily, but a long while ago she'd promised herself she would never become one of their _meals_.

She flips onto her back and plunges the twisted blade through the creature's neck. It slides in effortlessly, its tainted ichor dribbling down over its own steel armor. Through the slitted helmet, its wild, animalistic eyes widen, whitened lips drawing away from its sharpened fangs to display its permanent, hideous grin. Its flesh reeks of carrion and hangs loosely from the bones. The primitive bow it clutches in its clawed grasp clatters to the ground.

When it finally drops, its body joins in the cacophony of death that surrounds her. Human and darkspawn alike stain the field - blades abandoned, armor cleaved, blood spilled. But this isn't the sight that calls to her. Not a meter before her, a mangled body lies discarded. Regal plaits of armor cover his body in thick folds that did nothing to protect him from the ogre's touch. For some reason, the Maker deemed her life more important than the king's. For he's the one that's fallen.

Chest heaving for air and burning furiously, Hawke collapses back onto her haunches, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, the dagger dangling from her fingertips. Their _king_ - gone, dead. Desperation leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

The army is almost non-existent. On the edge of the battlefield, there's movement. Her hooded eyes shift and she watches as a team of darkspawn drag a pile of corpses away - where, Hawke doesn't to know, though she has her opinions. Somehow, it seems the darkspawn have forgotten about her in their lust for flesh and blood. She is among the remaining few dragging themselves to their feet.

How she longs for Carver at a moment like this. She'd watched him enter the Tower of Ishal and her lidded eyes drift to the sight of a blazing fire at the very top. She's sure there's some sort of significance to it, but the only things she wonders is if he lives.

"Hawke!" a sharp voice snaps before her face.

Firm fingers slide over her chin and wrench her head back around. She doesn't recognize the face, drenched in blood as it is. It might be something more than the blood. She feels… removed. Even the pain has grown distant, a relief.

Of course, that all vanishes in the blink of an eye when this man's fingers curve around the shaft lodged deeply into her chest and tears it out. She shouldn't have screamed - the darkspawn turn, those rotted faces grinning hideously at the sound of her piercing shriek. She curls inward, agony igniting her chest. She tries to bite back her cries, but the wild, pained sounds persist as she struggles for a full breath of air.

"Run!" the voice orders her, his hands collecting her and forcing her to her feet.

A strange sound pervades her hazy thoughts - one she recognizes; a sword pulled from a scabbard.

Her steps are clumsy when he shoves her and she nearly spills to the ground when her foot catches across a leg. Her gaze follows the lines of steel until she sees a dark, bushy beard. _The Grey Warden_.

"Run!" the man shouts again seconds before he engages a small group of remaining darkspawn.

It's the sound of the shrieks that snaps her thoughts back into place. She clutches at her dagger, ready to rush into the battle when one of those poisoned blades slide cleanly through the soldier's neck. It ruptures through the back, blood spurting from the wound.

A startled gasp slips past Hawke's lips and she whips around, running as fast as the Maker allows her. The king has fallen, the army is decimated, the Grey Wardens gone. Hawke runs to the last place she felt safe, hoping it will be enough - home.

-v-

Her dreams are plagued with screams, hundreds of faces streak before her eyes, some familiar, others not. But it matters little whether she knows them. All that does matter is they're dead. All of them.

Shouts startle her awake, her body nearly toppling over the branch she rests on. With no rope, she'd removed her thin gambeson and shredded it with her dagger, stringing long strips together to tie her against the tree. It's those knots she tears at now. More shouts and swords bashing together. She'd thought for sure she'd found her way free of the darkspawn, running for two days in countless directions to throw off her trail. At night, she took to the trees, one of few places she feels safe.

But the sound of battle emerges.

The ties fall loose, the battered remains of the gambeson sliding to the ground. It does little to disturb the scuffle.

Three armored soldiers fight in a tight circle and just behind them stands a mage, her magic swirling thickly through the air. The battalion of darkspawn is rather large. Hawke doesn't hesitate. She's seen enough death to last her entire life.

She snatches up her bow and even though her eyes are still hood lidded from sleep, she releases a percussion of arrows, each as quick and true as the last. The darkspawn begin to fall in waves, that foul ichor poisoning her woods. Her gasps are deafening to her own ears. How dare these creatures pervade something she cherishes so dearly.

Silence stretches through the trees with the end of the rather short battle. The soldiers turn in circles, their armor catching the soft bands of moonlight. From up here, and hidden in the shadows as they are, she can't make out their faces.

Her chest sears, in hindsight it likely hadn't been intelligent to exasperate the wound. Her fingers graze against her covering overtunic, the material damp with her blood. She needs to get home, Bethany knows a little of healing.

"You can come down now," a deep voice offers, a figure standing below her tree. The Maker has a sense of humor, for why else would it be that bloody Grey Warden again?

At first she intends to ignore him until she remembers Carver traveling with him. And with that thought, her fingers clutch at the trees and she swings herself down, her injured arm curled into her chest. She drops down into the understory, her boots muffled by the thick moss curling around the trunk.

There's a slight sigh, followed by a half-chuckle. "Why is it I always find you in the strangest places?"

"Carver," she calls, ignoring Cousland.

It's the third figure that spins, his motions jerky. Those eyes widen and the two Hawke siblings rush toward one another. Hawke holds him at shoulder length, inspecting him furiously. Not a scratch, it seems, and she shakes with relief.

"I was so worried," she murmurs, finally drawing him into a tight hug. The wound aches, reminding her of her injury, but she doesn't care. "You're safe."

"I am," he nods. "Thanks to Morrigan and her mother. Otherwise..."

Her hair spills about her shoulders as she shakes her head. "No otherwise," she whispers. "All that matters is your safe."

His arm twitch and he's drawing back from her, his eyes dropping to her forest green overtunic. "Marian," he murmurs, his fingers rising to touch the wet spot blooming like a rose.

"It's fine," she whispers, clasping his hand and removing it away from the injury.

Her brother growls a dark response and bats her hand away. He makes quick work of her hooded, sleeveless overtunic, all but tearing it away as he struggles to reach the injury. No words are spoken amongst the Grey Wardens, yet Cousland joins in, his fingers popping the leather buttons holding her jerkin on. The gambeson she'd already removed before, so now she stands in the thick of the woods, surrounded by three Grey Wardens, in naught but her smallclothes. Hawke's protests are swatted down like flies. It isn't exactly the way she envisioned a man undressing her, especially with her brother present. She lets her lids fall closed and focuses on breathing deeply.

"There's still a portion of the tip lodged within," Cousland murmurs, his voice like warm brandy - stark comparison the previous snarls she's contended with.

They lower her down onto the soft mounds of the forest floor, Carver's hand still clutched in her own.

"Alistair, hold her arms. Carver, I'll need your dagger," he muses, stepping around her.

Hawke's eyes snap open and lift to the mage hovering just off in the distance. Scantily dressed and heavy makeup lines her eyes. Certainly not a typical mage. She wants to ask Carver what happened at Ostagar, ask who this mage is, but Cousland chooses that exact moment to slide the blade deep into her chest.

Her gasp is loud, louder than the actual cry that falls from her lips. Her hand squeezes Carver's until even the poor boy cries out. The blade continues to twist, picking at something foreign lodged deep within. _Do not cry, _she orders herself, furiously blinking back the assault of tears now veiling her eyes. After endless probing and far too many cries falling from her lips, something small but heavy drops down her chest and into her lap; a remaining notch of a tipped arrow. She hadn't even known.

Her smallclothes - already heavily stained - run red once more, a steady stream of blood coursing down the material. And with it comes a wave of dizziness. Too much blood loss over the past two days. There's a moment of surprise that she even has any left to spare before she sags against the chest of the third Grey Warden.

-v-

Bands of light form behind her closed eyes. There's a stretch of warmth heating her face, chased after by a faint breeze that brings with it the smell of pine and primrose. In the distance she hears the call of a songbird and foliage rustling within. Closer, there's a gentle crackling and it's that she holds onto, allowing it to rouse her from her dreams.

Her fingers twitch at her side, digging into the mossy earth beneath her. She's stretched out on a thin bed of it, cushioning her from the loose soils of the forest.

The night before is covered in a fog of haze. She can't recall how she ended here. She remembers being woken to darkspawn and... _Carver_!

She darts up from the bed of moss, staggering slightly when her vision sways.

"Oh good, you're awake," a deep voice rises from across a flickering fire. The flames cast a gentle glow over his steel breastplate and warm his face. "Your brother will be relieved."

She frowns, unable to recall this man's name. She's confident it'd been mentioned the night before but her memories still remain a bit elusive. What little sunlight breaks free of the thick canopy overheard falls in gentle bands around him, lightening his hair until it shimmers with gold. His eyes watch her, an amber that reminds her of the sap she used to collect off the trees. But it's his jaw that attracts her gaze; wide and strong, just like her father's.

"Alistair," he reminds her gently.

Her chin dips in recognition. She'd seen him a few times at Ostagar and Peter had spoken of him once or twice. If she remembers correctly, he'd been close with that other Grey Warden, Duncan something. The man with the bushy beard that had nearly tripped her. Her mouth dries with the memory. And when she swings her eyes back up to his face, her heart plummets. He looks so sad.

"Where's Carver?" she questions.

"Out hunting with Morrigan. And Aedan is scouting for more darkspawn before we continue on our way."

"Aedan..." she murmurs, her eyes narrowing as she struggles to recall this name.

"Cousland."

_Right_. Cousland. Figures he'd have a first name. Her fingers slip beneath her overtunic, an itch forming just below her collarbone. She remembers the injury, but as her fingers fall against her skin, it's nearly healed. A hiss slips from beneath her teeth as she removes the overtunic to find an angry red welt instead of the gaping hole she'd last inspected. Now she remembers.

"Um, thanks for helping me," she murmurs, rubbing at the phantom pains lodged in her chest.

"Hey," he comments with a small shrug. "It's not every day you get to let a beautiful woman faint on you."

Her eyes snap to his. There's a tiny thread of humor warming his voice.

"I did _not_ faint," she grumbles before stooping over and snatching up her jerkin.

"You fainted," he responds. "It's alright. I think I would faint to if I had a blade digging an arrowhead out of my flesh." He shrugs as though this conversation is pointless. "We're heading into Lothering today. Your brother says your family lives there. You're welcome to join us. Safety in numbers and all that."

Hawke groans, her hands raking through her mussed cropped hair. While it would do well for her mother to see Carver before he leaves for whatever tasks the Grey Wardens have set out, Hawke knows it will not end so pleasantly. Surely, it'll be _her_ fault for allowing her brother to join the Order - like she could have stopped him.

Her sigh isn't lost on the Grey Warden and his eyes flick up to her, his brow knotting. Faint lines crease under his eyes as he frowns at her. "Don't you want to return home?"

Her laugh tastes greatly of bitterness. But she doesn't answer, simply grabs her bow and scales the side of the nearest tree, hoping to keep an eye out for any threats until Carver returns.

"Ya," she faintly hears the Grey Warden sigh. "I don't want to talk to me either."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So I know this is a story for both Anders and Hawke. I promise, we will be seeing Anders soon :) I just wanted to give a little insight into Hawke's character first. As you can see, I've made a few changes already. And since this story is slightly AU, I don't see the issue with that. I do hope you enjoy and thanks to _everyone_ who is reading/reviewing/subscribing/favoriting - the usual :D

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Chapter 3

The ground bucks under her feet, more than a simple shift. It's very nearly weeping; roiling and tossing itself about like the sea. Hawke's eyes lift from the cracking stone to the rocks hopping across the surface. Her stomach constricts, the taste of fear upon her tongue like a sickness. Like a heavy beat of a drum, thunderous steps bring a mighty beast into view. Her gaze trails the nest of curled horns, down to the decayed flesh hanging off the dented face, to the fangs as thick as her bow. Those lips peel back from its face in a furious roar that shakes her bones.

She can't look away, not even as she's shunted forward by a new wave of darkspawn at her back.

It charges, its eyes bearing down on Hawke. _Draw the bow! Do something! _But her limbs are frozen in terror as the beast closes the distance between them. A memory as strong as the sight before her swells up; the king snatched from the ground and squeezed until little remained beyond a mulch of bone and flesh.

The sound of the ogre's march is drowned away by the desperate beat of Hawke's heart. She knows she needs to move, needs to destroy the beast before it reaches her. Those meaty digits are gaining distance, all the while Hawke's tremble against the wooden shaft of her bow. Her thoughts are so loud, screaming at her to _do something_, anything beyond standing there, shaking in her boots.

There's a sharp howl, quickly swallowed by a small horde. Dread vanishes from her sight, tearing into the darkspawn, exactly as she'd the packs of mabari's do at Ostagar.

"Marian!" a shriek sounds across the field. A blaze of heat washes against her overtunic but it's the ogre that ignites, its rotted flesh combusting in a furious blaze.

The sight of the giant beast set aflame is one that'll chase her to her grave. But it sparks movement from her. She raises her bow, her trembling fingers about to release the first shot when something foul smelling rides her to the ground.

Hawke's bow spills from her fingers and she finds them clutching at the misshaped head hovering above her. Sharpened teeth snap by her face, its rank breath pooling at the hollow of her throat. Viscid drool congeals in the corner of its mouth before splashing down onto her face. A panicked scream tears free of her clenched lips as she struggles with the creature; it seems to be getting closer and closer with every haggard breath.

She squirms beneath the foul creature, fighting in vain for a foothold, with the hope of kicking free of the darkspawn still trying to rip into her throat.

A very human shriek rises above all over sound. Hawke's head snaps against the shuddering stone to find her sister dangling midair, snatched up by those same hands Hawke fears.

"Bethany!" she hollers, the thread of her heart shifting to something different.

Hawke's fingers tighten around the darkspawn's skull, thumbs pressing into the viscous eyes. Her shout is deafening and its eyes rupture in a thick fluid, splattering her face. She wants to vomit, her stomach certainly twists with the thought. But she can't. Finally she gets a foot beneath the roaring creature and shoves with every ounce of strength. For a moment, it looks as though the darkspawn can fly, how it arcs back and vanishes into the swell of creatures surrounding the templar and his wife.

Hawke scrambles to her feet and snatches her bow, firing a percussion of shots. Every step brings her closer to the ogre who clutches at her sister until she's very nearly blue in the face. It's the last that finally detracts its attention from her sister and down onto her.

The ogre rears around, spittle flying as it roars at her. The hand clenches and Bethany whimpers, sagging over the fist that grips her. Hawke takes a steadying breath, her next arrow aimed for the beast's eye when it shifts its weight. Bethany's scream is like nothing Hawke's ever heard. The fist clutching her slams into the ground.

How quickly her sister falls silent.

Hawke releases the shot, her arrow true to its mark. Its eye ruptures in a wash of blood and other fluids. Another incensed roar and her sister is finally released. Only the beast throws her. Hawke watches helplessly as Bethany arcs through the air, much like the darkspawn had, before she collapses in a heap, her face turned away from Hawke.

She wants to run to her but that blighted beast still stands. Hawke releases a cry - furious and pained. And before she realizes what she's doing, she's running, full out toward the creature. Her next shot takes it in the jaw, piercing its thick hide. When it roars, she throws herself in the air and lands on the creature's back, scaling it without any thought. Just like climbing a tree, hand before foot and push.

She places herself between the monstrous horns and from up here, releases two more arrows, down through the top of its head.

There's hardly a roar, simply a whimpered cry before the beast begins its descent. Air streams over Hawke's face, bringing with it the scent of death and blood. When the ogre collapses, she jumps, crumpling to her knees when she lands.

It's so quiet - too much so. When she rises, drenched in blood herself, along with other fluids, she turns to find her small group hovering around her downed sister.

The darkspawn appear to have fallen back, the field cleared. And because of that, Hawke rushes toward them, her bow secured by the string around her shoulders.

She tosses the templar and his wife out of the way and drops to her sister's side. Across from her kneels her mother, sobbing piteously against the pale hands of Bethany.

"Oh, my sweet girl," she weeps.

"...Bethany," Hawke chokes, shocked to find her sister staring ahead, her eyes clouded over and blind to the sight of those that mourn her.

A sorrowful song chimes from Dread's lips, his head tipped back to the sky as he howls achingly beautiful. It only strengthens the already cold fist gripping at Hawke's heart.

The templar speaks - words that Hawke refuses to hear. She can't tear her eyes away from her sister. This could have been her. The ogre had been charging straight for Hawke. Had Bethany not attacked, the beast would have plucked her from the ground and bashed _her _head into the ground until only this remained - a shell of a woman.

Her mother's sobs shred her already shattered heart. How she wishes they could both sit there and mourn, share in the grief they feel. But the grunting sounds of the darkspawn are nearing - another wave.

"Mother," Hawke mutters in a dark voice, void of tears. "B-Bethany wouldn't want us to die as well. We need to keep moving."

Her mother doesn't glance up from her youngest daughter - Carver's twin sister.

"Mother, please," Hawke presses. There's a waver to her voice but she refuses to let the tears she feels burning at her eyes slip free. "We must go."

Her hand falls against her mother's. Hawke is shocked when her mother jerks free of her touch, a face knotted in anger rising to glare at her. "This is your fault! How could you let her rush in like that! You _should _have done something!"

Hawke's fingers fall away from her mother, those words like poison. She blinks, it's all she can think to do.

"Please, we must go," Aveline - the wife of the templar they'd met just outside Lothering - murmurs.

Hawke pushes to her feet, her mother's words ringing through her ears. She's right, though. Had she not frozen and instead met the attack of the ogre, Bethany never would have charged in like that.

Guilt settles upon her shoulders and she nearly crumbles beneath it.

"Flames," Aveline grumbles. "We're too late."

So slowly Hawke lifts her eyes. Sure enough, Aveline's right. They're surrounded. She draws her bow, her fingers catching against the feathers of her arrows, counting. Not enough. In her other hand, she frees her dagger of her drenched jerkin. At least she won't carry the guilt for very long. Without a mage, they were to be overcome very quickly.

Hawke accepts their fate but lifts her bow either way. Her mother may blame her for both Bethany's and Carver's path but Hawke will continue to protect her. Until her last breath.

A horrifying shriek rends the desperate air and everyone falls silent. Hawke whips around to find a massive dragon perched on the edge of the crumbling cliff behind them. The talons alone are sharp enough to shred them without a second thought.

For a moment, she can't breathe. Dragons are supposed to be extinct. Yet, here one perches, its head thrown back to the sky as a column of fire spews from its lips. Hawke falters, her bow lifting toward the beast. A dragon to their back, darkspawn to their front - her mother and Bethany should have left Lothering long ago, when their friends did. They shouldn't have waited for her to find her way home from Ostagar. And that right there is the real reason for all this.

She's about to release her arrow, though she knows it's a waste, that scaly hide works like armor to protect it, when it launches off the cliff in a foul swoop, wings stretched to infinity. They're cast into an endless shadow.

It drops, the belly of the beast within touching range. Flaxen, nictitating eyes hover on Hawke for a moment, before its lips part and another inferno is released. Only it washes over the darkspawn.

The creatures writhe, their shrieks deafening as their rotted flesh crackles and pops under the extreme heat. Hawke can hardly look away, though the scent of burning decayed flesh is enough to very nearly spill her stomach contents.

The dragon drops to the earth, its neck curving to glance back at them. She could swear there's a smile curving those lips before the air shifts and a woman suddenly stands among the ruins of darkspawn.

Hawke's mouth parts in wonderment as this woman sashays up to them, clearly a witch. A meaty weight presses against her side and her hand drops into the calcified fur, stained heavily with mud and blood. Dread's head lowers, his ears pinned back as he snarls loudly.

"A most curious sight," the witch breathes quickly, her words clearly only meant for Hawke who stands apart from the rest of the group. "It is not often one sees such a thing as a felled ogre."

Hawke shrugs, not exactly feeling heroic at that moment. In fact, she doesn't feel much of anything. If only it could be her lying in ruin instead of her sister. "Seen one ogre, seen them all."

"Is that a fact?" the woman cackles. "How nice it must be to have such worldly experiences."

The woman herself seems to have her own horns curling out from her wildly hair, bleached and smooth. Everything about her breathes danger and threat.

Hawke's steps canter back, placing distance between them. The witch watches this with an amused grin curling over her face. Neither speak.

After moments of the witch inspecting her, she finally dips her head and moves to leave. "My curiosity is sated."

"Wait-" Hawke calls, stealing back those steps. She has no idea what comes over her but she stretches toward the witch, her fingers hovering the expanse between them. "You can't just leave us here."

"Can't I?" she chuckles. "The way I see it, I can do just about anything I desire."

Hawke swallows. "Yes, I suppose you can. Having a dragon on our side could be helpful," she tries for her typical humor but no one smiles. Not with Bethany mangled at their feet. "Look, we're just trying to get to Gwaren. There are boats there, leaving-"

"To Kirkwall, I am aware." She turns, the tails of her long jacket swishing around her feet.

The witch takes a few steps and Hawke is certain she hears her muttering to herself. A crazy dragon, joy of joys. Hawke peers at the back of the witch's coat, wondering where the wings would go. Shapeshifting had always confused her.

"It would appear fortune falls upon us both today," the witch calls back over her shoulder before rounding toward Hawke once more. "I, myself, am in need of some assistance. Aid me and I will ensure you arrive safely to Gwaren."

A single brow quirks wryly and Hawke's lips tip. "What could you possibly need from me that a dragon couldn't do?" She almost wishes she hadn't asked this question. Does she really want the answer to such a thing?

"A great many things," the witch cackles. "There is a clan of Dalish living on Sundermount, just outside Kirkwall. Deliver them this locket, and we shall be even."

The other brow shifts skyward. "Seriously? You want me to play delivery girl, that's it?"

The witch laughs, her finger rising to tap her chin. "I could ask you for something much more, if you'd prefer. But this is a task that I require right now and your death would only hinder my plans."

Hawke's unsure of what to say. Certainly traveling with a witch is dangerous enough all on its own. But if it means no darkspawn, can she reject such a thing? How difficult could it be to simply deliver a locket?

"It isn't poisoned, is it?" Hawke asks. "Nothing in that locker is going to bite me?"

The witch's head tosses back and she lets loose this chilling cackle that lifts the hair on the back of Hawke's neck. "Now did I promise such a thing?"

"Um..." she murmurs, turning to the rest of her companions. The templar, Wesley, is slumped over a rock, his heat shuddering with the strain of breathing. Aveline hovers over him, eyes pressed as she searches for the cause. They wouldn't survive another fight, not without Bethany, not with an injured templar. As for Hawke, she's down to her last dozen arrows. Her dagger could only do so much. "Seems we don't have much of a choice."

"Good," the witch smirks, those unnatural eyes shimmering at Hawke. For some reason she feels as though she just made a deal with a demon.

-v-

"I'm... sorry, about your sister," a voice rises in the dark of night.

Even with the witch traveling with them, Hawke opted for no fire. They've tempted fate enough for one lifetime. All she wants is to get her mom on that ship, get to Kirkwall, find her uncle, and sleep for a few years. What in the Maker's name had made her think she wanted to join the army? Such grandiose stories about honor and glory - they rarely speak of how one must drown in blood first.

"Thank you," she whispers as she draws the folds of her overtunic over her arms. It's colder down here. How she wishes she could sleep in the trees. At least up there, she knows she'd be safe. Except, her ties from the last time had been tossed away once reaching home. And there is no way she is shredding her overtunic. It isn't _that _warm up there either. "I'm sorry about Wesley."

Bethany's had at least been a sudden death. She'd been stolen by that creature. But Wesley's... well, Hawke now knows what the blight truly is and she's seen its true face. Poor lad, some of the darkspawn blood must have tainted his wound. The witch even mentioned the blades these foul creatures carry are tainted themselves. Suddenly Hawke is even more grateful she fights from afar. Though she'd had the witch check the healing remains of her own shoulder injury. She hadn't told her mother about it when arriving in Lothering; she'd had Bethany heal the broken ribs secretly. And the fine press of her mother's lips ensured she would hear about it later - in private company.

The two women nod slowly at one another, sharing equally in each other's pain.

The witch had vanished not an hour ago, scouting she claimed. Hawke didn't believe a word of it. But she trusts the witch. Already, she's made crispy cakes out of three darkspawn hordes. Without the witch, they wouldn't have survived the first.

The sounds of the forest surround them, but for Hawke it's soothing - unlike her mother that twitches at every sound. Rodents scurrying about, branches creaking in the wisps of wind that find their way within, owls hooting as they hunt, it's all so beautiful. And her heart shatters when she realizes soon it will all die, withering beneath the feet of the darkspawn. Everything they touch is corrupted. Even Hawke feels it inside, a fear twisting her insides that's never been there before.

"Your mother mentioned you just lost your brother as well?"

Hawke sighs and shifts against the thick trunk, her rear cushioned on a section of moss. "My mother likes to think that. Carver has joined the Grey Wardens."

Aveline nods, her outline shifting in the dark. "I suppose that is the same. I heard... talk of the Wardens at Ostagar. Family is something they are not exactly permitted. Always on the move, always hunting darkspawn..."

Hawke doesn't respond. For the past few hours she's been trying to sort out how to inform him of Bethany's death. It isn't as though she can send a letter. She doesn't even know where he is or what he's doing. All she knows is he's being led by that Cousland to battle the blight.

Her shoulders round. Both Aveline and her mother are right. Carver _is _lost to them. Chances are grim that he'll even survive. Their time spent traveling to Lothering, Cousland had revealed they are the only remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Three Grey Wardens against the blight? The odds are greatly in the darkspawn's favor - clearly seen by their recent conquests; Ostagar, Lothering, Bethany, and Wesley. She knows Bethany and Wesley are small in comparison to towns and battles, but the people that loved them feel it just as aptly.

"I don't want to think about it," Hawke whispers.

She suddenly misses her father. It's been three years since he died, yet for some reason, on this night, beneath the canopy of trees, she thinks of him. Perhaps Bethany found him. It's all she can hope.

"You should get some sleep," she tells Aveline. "We'll reach Gwaren tomorrow morning."

"You should as well," she mutters before curling up on a level spot of land.

Hawke draws the overtunic further around her shoulders and slumps back against the tree. There is no way she'd sleep tonight, as she doubts Aveline will, and her mother as well.

She settles finally, her head tipped back against the trunk. Half slitted eyes stare up at the canopy, watching as a large shadow looms over them, in the shape of a dragon; ever watchful.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Yay for Anders in this chap! I said he would be coming soon :D Here begins the intrigue. I have SOO much planned for these two, I can hardly contain my excitement! If anyone is confused bout the timeline, I altered it a bit to make sense haha. So! The Blight ends in 9:31 Guardian, I have Awakening happening immediately afterwards instead of six months. The events of Awakening finish two months later, bringing us to Cloudreach and Anders' arrival in Kirkwall :D Enjoy! And let me know what you think! Thanks so much everyone!

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Chapter 4

-Hawke-

**Dragon Age 9:31 Guardian****: Kirkwall **_**One year later**_

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Hawke draws heavily from her tankard, the swill hardly touching her tongue on the way down. Not really one for drinking, she finds the taste much too bitter for her liking. But, today celebrates her one year in the servitude of the Red Iron. And what does she have to show for it? A squalid hovel to rest her head at the end of night, crawling with verminous rodents - no matter how Dread may try to clear them out - and a small coin purse strapped to her side, which just happens to be growing lighter and lighter with every passing day. And after a day of trudging through piss stained rattraps in search of _another_ tramp that decided to skip out on a debt owed to Meeran, a drink is certainly needed.

At least this is to be her final night beneath him. There is something to be said about freedom, though she still doesn't feel the touch of it. What is freedom, anyhow? While she may not owe her allegiance to that blighted man anymore, she still has little gold to her name or power behind it to get her mother out of the shack her uncle deems a house.

She tosses back another swallow, the flagon thumping heavily onto the counter as she stares ahead into the pitted wall before her. The empty seats next to her are likely far more painful than her split knuckles and newly broken pinky finger, twisting oddly away from the other fingers - seats where Bethany and Carver should be. Celebrating a year of freedom means very little when there isn't anyone to share it with. The only friend she has in this town is Aveline and friend is a bit of a strong word. The woman recently was accepted into the city guard and since then, Hawke has seen very little of her. Likely trying to distance herself from the woman running with the mercenaries. She doesn't fault Aveline. If she could rise out of the squalor or Lowtown, she certainly would, first chance she got.

"Did ya hear?" a voice rasps behind her. She knows it isn't directed toward her, but the fervor in which his hushed voice speaks calls to her.

Her maimed pinky hardly twitches when her hand closes around the tankard. A few more of these and she'd be able to set the bone on her own, with just enough alcohol in her system to cloud the pain - or at least, that's the plan.

"The blight is _over_," the man hisses to whoever it is he speaks with.

The flagon hovers by Hawke's mouth, the chipped edge resting against the swell of her lower lip.

"Don't be daft, man. Ever heard of a blight being ended in a year?" the second voice scoffs. "I been telling ya, it ain't no blight!"

"Not what I've been hearing," the first brays. "Been hearing talk about a dragon, atop Fort Drakon... remember Fort Drakon, Airen? Them Grey Wardens apparently killed it and all them darkspawn it dragged out them bloody pits... Socked Denerim, _right to the ground!_"

"You're bleeding mad!" the second laughs. "Believe anything ya hear, eh? Next ya'll be telling me King Maric is back on the throne. I won't have it!"

Hawke listens as they shift around their table, grumbling under their breath, cursing at one another. She's just about to request a top up when the conversation continues.

"It's true, I tell ya!" the first continues. "Ma refused to leave, she wrote me! Told me how some Grey Warden in golden armor swooped down in time to save her from the beasts."

There's a bit of a silence, then - "A year, Gyin! All the other blights lasted centuries! You expect me to believe your ma-"

But this Gyin continues. "She says Anora took the throne! With some new consort, Cousland fellow."

Hawke shifts, nursing her drink as she listens. This is the most information she'd received in regards to home in a very long time. She only prays they mention Carver. Except they don't. After a few more random words, their chairs scrape gratingly against the cracked floor and she listens as their voices fade from hearing. Her curse is quite loud, even under her breath, and the man seated next to her turns to her with a shocked expression. Hawke meets his gaze and holds it until finally a furious blush colors his cheeks and he turns away.

"Another drink!" a voice rises next to her. "For myself and my new friend here."

Hawke shifts and glances in the other direction. Where she expects to find a fully grown man hovering next to her, leering as most men are wont to do, she instead finds a dwarf. For a moment she lets her eyes wander him.

Interesting little dwarf, one might say. She's never seen one without a beard before, yet he's perched on the stool next to her, chin almost as bare as a baby's bottom, though likely nowhere near as smooth. He's not even dressed as the other dwarves, in their common clothing symbolizing where they stand within their dwarven politics. No, this one is clothed in typical human clothing, just... smaller.

"Not interested," she mumbles around the rim of her cup.

It isn't the first time she's been propositioned by men. It's late, they drink, their interest peeks over the lone woman sitting at the bar, drinking or not, and they work the courage up to invite her to their bed. Not _once_ has Hawke been interested. Not with the men that frequent _this _bar - or any in Kirkwall, rather. But it is the first time a dwarf has shown interest, a strange thought certainly.

"Oh come on now, you haven't even heard me out!" the dwarf laughs, reaching for the mug the barkeep drops down before him.

"And I don't plan to," she mutters darkly as she swings her legs out from under the stool and rises to her feet, purposely shifting her overtunic aside to display the assortment of daggers she carries in her belt. The dwarf gets an eyeful - only because he's level with her belt - before she starts to move away. Gamlen, hopefully, will have left for the Blooming Rose by now, not that she would know anything about that. It was agreed just shy of a year ago that they wouldn't report to her mother either of them seeing the other in such a shady place. The only difference, Hawke usually ended up killing someone there while Gamlen bedded someone. In Hawke's eyes, she's the better person.

"Wait!" he calls, dropping off the stool and rushing toward her. When he comes to stand before her, Hawke's eyes drop, though not by much. One of the joys of being an Amell it seems, the women tend to fall short when it comes to height, no matter the height of her father - which only Carver seems to have inherited. Though, Bethany had always been a slight bit taller as well. "I have a proposition for you... a business arrangement if you will."

Hawke's eyes widen. Do people seriously just come out and say it like that? That sort of business is meant to remain at the Blooming Rose. "And I won't," she says, her fingers brushing against the swell of his chest and she strives to move him aside. "I don't know what you've heard, but I'm not for sale."

"For sale?" he laughs. "Maker, I... uh, that isn't exactly what I had in mind. Though there would be coin involved."

How many times does she have to say no for the dwarf to understand. Sighing, she skirts around him, heading for the door. Looks like her mother would have to deal with the finger for her. The bone needs to be set before it begins to heal.

"Hawke!" he calls from behind, her name halting her in her steps.

Slowly, she turns, her fingers falling to her belt as she reaches for her blades.

"Now, now," he chuckles, his hands rising in defense. "Maker, they didn't tell me I was tempting fate just by talking to you."

"Speak quickly, dwarf," she grumbles, crossing back over to him.

"Oh, commanding, I like that," he winks.

She maintains her blank face, wondering the best body part to drive a dagger home. Her year with the Red Iron has taught her some tricks that the army never had. Tricks that would leave this poor dwarf begging for mercy in under a minute.

"Right," he clears his throat. "I hear you're in search of work. A way out of Lowtown. I have your way out."

Her eyes narrow. "And you'd just willingly do something like that, for a complete stranger?"

He laughs again, a sound that she's beginning to find most annoying. "You're not a complete stranger. You've been making a name for yourself, working for the Red Iron. I know you're done with Meeran. I have a proposition that's going to make your day."

"My day's done," she quips.

"Already?" he winks. "It's not even full dark out."

"Speak quicker," she snaps, her pinky beginning to ache terribly without the bitter tang of alcohol to chase it away.

"My brother and I are putting together an excursion into the Deep Roads -"

Hawke goes deaf to his little speech the moment those two words pass his lips. Images of darkspawn materialize behind her eyes; clouded, animalistic eyes, befouled twisted lips pulling back to reveal their glinting, sharpened teeth that could tear through a bear hide in seconds, flesh hanging off from the bone...

"No," she growls, turning away from the dwarf before he can even finish his proposition.

"What?" he questions. "Did you even hear the part about enough gold to buy your way back into Hightown? Claim the Amell estate once again?"

Hawke's steps pause. Did she not just sit at that table minutes ago thinking how she would do anything to get out of Lowtown? But the Deep Roads? _No_. She's dealt with the darkspawn enough for her entire life and then some. Just the thought of creeping through those tunnels that she's heard run beneath Darktown makes her hair stand on end. Nights have been spent lying awake after nightmares of the creatures, pouring over the land like a plague, never ending, crawling from those depths, destroying everything that gets in their way. They started with Ostagar, the king, the Grey Wardens, and moved on to Bethany.

"No," she says again. She'll find another way. Any other way that doesn't involve descending into such a place. She'd have to be mad -

"The Deep Roads are abandoned right now!" the dwarf sighs. "They're supposed to be safest to travel during blights."

She hitches a glance back over her shoulder. "Then what do you need me for?" she nods at the strange looking bow strapped to his back. "You look capable enough."

"We don't need another hireling. We need a partner. Someone to help us fund the entire expedition. You'd be given a third of whatever we find down there."

_A third_. Even she can't deny that value. "And you're certain there's treasure to be found down there?"

He nods. "My brother knows the location of a forgotten thaig. Dwarves always keep their treasure nearby. Believe me, by the end of this expedition, you'll have mercenaries working for you instead of the other way around. They'll be shouting the name Amell at the top of their lungs-"

"Hawke," she growls. "My mother is an Amell. I am not."

He shrugs. "Whatever floats your boat, princess."

Hawke's eyes trail the stout little man, wondering just how much she can actually trust him. Gamlen would claim that a dwarf is never trustworthy, but Gamlen also lies with every breath he takes.

But the Deep Roads... she doesn't like this idea at all. "You ever fight darkspawn?" she asks him. She knows dwarves are from the Deep Roads, but that means little.

"Can't say that I have."

She rakes a hand down her face, the heels of her hands rubbing away the fatigue that presses behind her eyes. She's conflicted - darkspawn or Lowtown for the rest of her life, neither are agreeable options. "What do you need me to do?" she finally asks.

The dwarf lights up, his bushy brows arching high on his brow. "Fifty gold," he tells her. "To buy your way in. My brother Bartrand can't say no to that."

Her laugh is breathy. "Fifty gold, that's all? You say that like it's a piece of cake. Just let me open my purse to you," she rolls her eyes, shifting until her back is flush against the wall of the Hanged Man. "If I had fifty gold, I wouldn't be here and I wouldn't be talking to you about entering the Deep Roads."

The dwarf nods. "There's lot of work around Kirkwall. I can show you where now that you aren't tied down to Meeran anymore. Put a little aside from each job and we'll have the gold in no time."

_In no time_. It's only been a year of completing medial jobs for Meeran that have very nearly left her more barren than before she arrived. And she arrived with nothing. At least if they don't make the fifty gold, they won't be entering the Deep Roads.

She takes that thought as a consolation and finally nods. The dwarf grins and extends a hand to her, giving hers a solid pump. "Name's Varric Tethras. At your service, bard extraordinaire, but I prefer story teller."

Hawke groans, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand. _A story teller_,_ marvellous_. "Marian Hawke," she murmurs to him.

"Welcome Hawke. Now, let's get down to business, shall we? The longer we sit on this, the longer it'll take you to get out of Lowtown."

* * *

-Anders-

**Dragon Age 9:31:**** Cloudreach **_**Three months later**_

* * *

What he would _give _for a drink right now. It must just be coincidence that there's a pub standing right before him. _The Hanged Man _- legendary even in Ferelden. His eyes wander the figure that swings in the cold breeze, a man hung by his feet, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. It's not a pleasant image to see, but neither were the guardian statues etched into the cliffs when boating between the sheer rock walls.

He rakes a hand down his roughly stubbled face, prying the grit from his eyes. Somehow he's managed to escape Ferelden and that wretched Keep the Warden Commander was trying to restore. Cousland had left Anders behind and he'd made quick use of that trust to fake his own death. If it's worked, he's a soon to be free man - no templars _or _Grey Wardens. And if he's lucky, the same might be said for Karl as well; if he can figure a way past the templars. It's almost too good to believe. A drink is certainly required, for celebration purposes only.

He palms open the door, his long jacket acquired in Amaranthine fluttering about his legs when a swift breeze sweeps up. It ruffles the papers against the walls as he moves, attracting the attention of every last Kirkwaller within. For a moment, his breath hitches, waiting for them to point and name him mage, but apparently uninterested, they return to their drinks and conversations. For once, he's just another face and he can't help but smile, forcibly unwinding the kink in his shoulders.

The heel of his boots echo against the planked floor as he leads himself over to the innkeeper and places a few copper on the counter. The bartender tops up a flagon for him, without the accustomed sneer or scowl, and slides it his way. So far it seems nothing like Karl's letters, but he hasn't seen these wretched gallows yet. Not that he actually wants to, but helping Karl is the main reason he'd come.

_You intend to hide here?_

He ignores the voice in his head, his long fingers wrapping around the tankard as he moves over to a spare table. He takes a seat and settles against it, allowing for a moment just to watch. For once, not having to worry about anything other than himself.

Everyone seems to keep to themselves, friendly banter rising within the tavern but still quite quiet. Beyond a small table seating four people, though. They appear louder than the rest, and seem to be enjoying the clink of coin as it falls onto the table. From here, he can see a dwarf, a heavily armored elf, a city guard, and what looks like a human male, with a massive mabari curled around his feet - Fereldan then. Only the elf and dwarf are visible, the other two with their backs to him. The city guard he can see is female, from the side profile and long hair. He's not even sure what drew his eye, but there they sit, laughing with one another. Well, except the elf, his eyes keep swinging back and forth as though inspecting the tavern himself. When those shimmering eyes land on Anders, he sighs and drops his gaze, returning to his drink.

He draws from his tankard, immediately grimacing at the foul taste.

_This is folly_.

Anders sighs and lowers the flagon back down to the table. It certainly is. Tastes like piss, or what he would imagine piss to taste like.

_That is not what I meant_.

He ignores the voice again, refusing to dwell on such things._ Lighten up, Justice_. Kirkwall is their home now, free of all former bonds restraining them from truly experiencing the world. His fetters have been cut and now he's allowed to fly free. Is that not the dream of a mage, staring out of the stone towers they are locked within? To spread their wings and leap? Well, he's leaped. And now it's time to soar.

* * *

-Hawke-

* * *

"What's the count?" Varric asks, slanting back in his chair as he caresses Bianca's smooth shaft. Hawke watches, a slight smile twitching her lips. She's never handled her bow in such a fashion, though at his insistence, they'd decided to name it Fear - partner in crime to Dread. The mabari had gotten a howl out of it, stubby little tail thwacking against the table legs as he listened.

"Fifteen gold," she answers, firmly reattaching the purse to her belt. "Thirteen after the night I'm sure," she winks. "We should probably stop buying rounds if we ever want to make it to the Deep Roads."

Aveline chuckles. "The chances of that happening are-"

"Slim," Varric growls. "Don't threaten my tankard, Hawke. You'll make Bianca cry."

"Then Bianca needs to chip in a little for drinks," she teases.

It's been three months since she first met Varric, in this very tavern. And so far he's been true to his word in helping her make the gold required for th Deep Roads. There are days where she feels nothing but dread for the upcoming expedition. But there are nights, typically spent with Gamlen in that hovel, that she realizes the Deep Roads may just be better than this.

Slowly, she's making a name for herself. People have even begun to seek her out for jobs; much to her surprise. As it is, they've begun a list of all the jobs pending. Aveline had gone through it to sort by importance. At the middle of the list is that witch's locket. Hawke wants nothing more than to square that little outstanding debt - it's been a year after all. But even she couldn't argue that a missing woman and a mine massacre are more important. And above that, she's heard talk - mostly from Gamlen when drunk - that her mother's ancestral house is being used by slavers. Everyone agrees that requires checking into as well.

Aveline even has a job for them, one that they have to check into tomorrow - a possible assault on some guards patrolling the Wounded Coast.

"Bianca's a lady, Hawke. She shouldn't have to pay," Varric murmurs, dragging her thoughts back to the present.

"What am I?" she laughs. "Chopped liver?"

He laughs, leaning back with his fingers now splayed over his obscenely hairy chest. "Maybe not chopped. Sliced, perhaps?" he winks. "Keep dressing like a man and you continue buying the drinks."

She scowls at him from beneath the thin cloth of her hooded overtunic. "No one mistakes me for a man, too short."

"Not from where I'm sitting, princess."

The table joins in a soft laugh, even the elf. Fenris - or so he likes to be called - only joined them a fortnight ago. Tonight is the first night Hawke managed to convince him to join them. A quiet elf, she knows nothing about him beyond the fact that he's a former slave whose master still hunts him and that it's lyrium etched into his skin. Hawke knows all about lyrium from her father and sister. The surly sort, he seems rarely willing to join in on the fun, so she takes a moment to listen to his soft laugh, clearly foreign on his lips.

"We need to find a way into the Deep Roads," Varric mentions. "Bartrand knows where the thaig is located but how to get down there..." he shrugs. "I'll keep an ear out to hear if anything helpful comes our way."

"So long as it's an abandoned entry," she eyes him. "I don't want to stumble over a horde the moment we get down there." In fact, that's the last thing she wants.

The dwarf chuckles. "Anything for you, Hawke."

"_Anything_," she muses, curving forward over the table. "You mean that, Varric?"

His eyes widen. "What do you have in mind?"

Her lips curl, her fingers falling against Dread's neck as she watches the dwarf squirm. "Let me play with Bianca." She's been dying to touch her since she first watched him release a shot. The sound of her gears and springs... Hawke nearly sighs with want. Not that Fear isn't a good bow. He's fantastic. And yes, they'd decided he's male. A companion for Bianca if Varric ever decides to cut the cord coiling around the two of them.

He chokes on his next breath, reaching for his love immediately. "For shame!" he scoffs playfully. "_Ssh_, don't worry baby, daddy will never let anyone touch you."

Hawke suffers a sigh and sits back in her chair, her other hand falling on her bow. "Then you don't get to play with Fear."

Varric groans. "Prostituting your bow, now, Hawke? You should be ashamed."

Laughter again, even from Hawke as she returns to scratching behind Dread's ear, his leg thumping loudly in response.

"We are being watched," Fenris mutters darkly under his breath.

Startled, Hawke watches Varric's eyes climb over her shoulder, knowing not to turn just yet. Though her fingers do reach into her belt, just in case.

But whatever it is he sees, the dwarf shrugs. "Likely just another fan of Hawke."

"Because I collect _so _many!" she rolls her eyes. And why were they always drunks? It's like she's a beacon for sad men with pitiful lives. Her uncle reincarnate.

Hawke waits a few moments before finally turning. This man's head is turned away from them now, his fingers spinning the tankard on the table. Her eyes narrow at the sight of his profile. It's the length of his nose that looks familiar, long and straight. After a few moments studying his strange jacket, she gives up and with a shrug turns back to her table. Likely just a patron, nothing to worry themselves over. Though he does have the air of sadness surrounding him. She returns to their conversation, putting the man out of her mind.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry this took so long to update everyone! I got a little caught up in another Anders/Hawke story I just HAD to write haha. If you're curious, it's called Penance - and it takes place after the events of Kirkwall. It was one of those moments where a story demands you drop everything just to write it haha.

Thanks to everyone who's been reading and favoriting and reviewing and all that jazz! Glad you guys are enjoying the story, I am as well. As you will be able to see from this chapter, I'm changing things slightly. Hopefully for the good though :)

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**-Hawke-**

* * *

"Bullshit, Rivaini!" Varric sniggers into his tankard, stretching back in his chair as his eyes rove over their newest companion - a pirate from Rivain.

"I shit you not! It was _this _big!" she stretches out her arms, the material stretching generously across her breast, her lips spreading into a teasing grin.

Hawke laughs against her own rim, taking a long pull from the ale. The taste has grown on her since meeting the dwarf - most nights are spent in the Hanged Man anyways, counting their gold, sharing in last stories. Tonight, everyone is quite intrigued by the pirate - well, maybe not everyone.

Thick arms cross over Aveline's muscled chest as she leans back with a glare, her freckles darkening with her displeasure. "I would expect you to have a wide assortment of knowledge in sizes," Aveline grumbles, her narrowed eyes turning away from the sight of the olive skinned woman.

Hawke chokes on the ale, her eyes widening in disbelief. Aveline is blunt, no doubt to that whatsoever, but never has she heard such cold words spill forth.

"Oh, _big girl_, I have a wide assortment of knowledge in _all_ facets," she winks, a sly grin curling toward Hawke. "And feeling generous to my new friend here, I'm willing to... share in such topics."

Hawke barely represses her snort. A blaze of heat takes to Aveline's cheeks, as bright as her fiery hair.

"You share in a lot of things, from my understanding." This, from Fenris. Hawke's eyes are so wide she feels they may just pop. A _joke_? From their silent, brooding elf?

She feels... warm tonight, having partaken in more than the customary drink with her friends. How she likes the sound of that. It's been quite a while since she felt such companionship. Since Peter, in fact, and he is a memory best left to the recesses of her mind.

She has to admit the dwarf holds closest to her, even after all she and Aveline had gone through to get here together. The elf, there is certainly much to be said about him. Once Hawke began to find a way beneath his surliness, she found a dry humor that still continues to catch her off guard. But the pirate is one she can certainly bond with. A rogue in her own way, daggers instead of a bow. Feeling bold, Hawke rises to the taunt.

"In all facets?" she slurs, her fingers loosening around the tankard when she lowers it to the table, with a wretched grin snaking over her own lips. "Not sneaking."

The table falls silent and the woman turns to Hawke with a wide grin. "What's this, kitten? You think there's something you are better at than me?"

Hawke tips back in her chair until the front two legs lift from the grimy floor. A silent challenge. "I saw how you snuck around in Hightown before we went to the Chantry. If I could see you, so can everyone else. That woman knew you were coming a mile away. But she didn't see my arrow, did she? Well, not until it took her between the eyes."

Choruses of voices rise at the table - laughter, teasing, and further goading. The pirate, on the other hand, shifts in her chair until balanced precariously just as Hawke is. There's a challenge to her eyes, a playful light that Hawke imagines every man sees before she tumbles into their beds. There's a tiny crease at the corner of her lip, a stress line, as she continues to hold the position.

Hawke has little trouble, having developed her grace and stealth a very long time ago. How else was she to sneak off to watch her father train Bethany? Her mother would have had a fit, had she ever been found. It's a talent that Carver, unfortunately, never possessed, but greatly desired. Her balance slips a little with the thought of her baby brother. Four months since the end of the blight and still no news on if he lives or not.

"This is ridiculous," Isabella laughs as she rights herself. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do this right."

Hawke smirks, her fingers digging into the wood of the table as she corrects herself as well. "What do you have in mind?"

For a moment the pirate's face blanks, a look Hawke imagines doesn't happen often with her.

It's Varric that laughs, his arms dropping onto the table. "How about a little bet?"

Both Isabela and Hawke slant forward. Even the elf's face has shifted toward them, those shimmering emerald pools lighting up as he meets Hawke's gaze. It seems the two rogues aren't the only one intrigued by such a thing.

"What kind of bet?"

The dwarf laughs. "For the title of Queen Rogue, a challenge has been issued. By any means deemed appropriate, so long," he shoots a glance to Isabela, "as it involves only stealth, no other methods of persuasion..." The pirate grimaces and shifts back, her pouty lips pursed in disapproval. They all know exactly what methods Varric speaks of, "the first to sneak into the templar barracks wins."

Hawke's mouth gapes and she slants a glance at the pirate. "I may be drunk," she giggles. "But I think that's a perfect challenge."

Isabela nods. "You're on. When?"

The dwarf scratches at his nonexistent beard. "Oh I don't know, how about now?"

Hawke chokes on another swallow of her ale. Now? But... she can feel the ale lining her stomach, fuzzing her thoughts... her eyes shift to the pirate. She appears just as sloshed, having finished likely three more glasses than Hawke. "Done!" she shouts, lifting her glass in the air for a loud cheer. The table follows suit, all laughing as Hawke stumbles to her feet, her toe already catching on a crack in the floor. It's only the strong arm of Fenris that sweeps around her waist and rights her before she tumbles to the ground.

"Ah, Hawke?" he murmurs lightly. "Is this the best game for you to play in such a state?"

But for the first time, Hawke isn't concerned about the templars. There's no magic left in her family. Laughing, she stretches up and pats the elf's cheek. "Worry not, my favoritist elf! I will win and be crowned Queen Rogue. And we will celebrate with another pint!" she roars, laughing at the shocked look arching the dwarf's brows. The entire bar lifts in cheers and jeers, clearly not knowing what is happening but enjoying the excitement either way.

"How much has she had tonight?"

"Too much," the elf rumbles next to her ear. A curious sensation flutters in her stomach and with a shy smile, she draws away from his touch and points the pirate forward.

* * *

That _voice_. He's heard it before, but he can't place where. Like a dream, a memory drifting away on a cloud of ale that he can't clutch at. Yet, there's something. He remembers the scent of birch. Why birch? Trees… all around them, how quickly she could climb them.

His eyes lift from the hard grained wooden table and he peers through the haze fogging his vision. A woman… surrounded by, Maker, a lot of people. A couple elves and dwarves… no, he's not seeing straight. He blinks, his fingers rising to wipe the grit from his eyes. _One _elf, with a very large sword. From the back, the voice seems to belong to a man, clothed in an overtunic and jerkin. But when she turns, no, it's a woman. And that _face_. He _knows_ her.

* * *

-Anders-

* * *

Word has spread quicker than anything he could have imagined. Countless sick and injured continue to pour through these haphazardly hanging doors, all in need of some form of healing. Whatever opinion Anders had of Kirkwall, it's tarnished now. Refugees left to waste in Darktown, the sick and injured uncared for - many fired from the same jobs that had injured them in the first place. It made him... sick to see such abuses. Though, it is _nothing _compared to what he sees being done to the mages. He couldn't believe his own eyes when he crept into the gallows. Like a prison - mages trapped within. He's heard talk of those being made tranquil, numbers greater than Ferelden had ever held. And Karl... his task is proving much more difficult than originally intended. Getting notes to him is harder than he'd dreamed. So far he's managed two. And both times Karl's fear is greater than before. He's running out of time, Anders can feel it.

His options are few. And all involve the templars in some fashion, something he'd greatly like not to do. What he needs is help. But he doesn't know who to trust with something like this. If he lets slip his plan to the wrong person, the templars will be breathing down his neck faster than he can spit.

Until then, he will continue to help as best he can. His days are spent locked within the hovel Lirene showed him, originally spent transforming it into a clinic and now working on the people. And every time he walks out there, the numbers appear to be growing.

His entire body aches for sleep. Even as a Grey Warden, he'd not been worked this hard. But he has to admit, the benefits are much greater. To be able to help those that need it, rather than be trapped in some stalker and darkspawn infested roads, slaying these putrid creatures beneath tons of rock that at any moment could come crumbling down... Oh, he sees the benefits easily. These people need him. The Grey Wardens only made use of a tool.

But he can't sleep. Not yet. Tonight is the night he's planned to sneak into the Gallows. A final note to slip to Karl - to let him know that once he finds help he can trust, he'll get him out there.

He rises from his chair, the planked floor groaning under his weight. If only that were the least of his problems. He's sure breathing in the blackdamp clogs is not exactly the best for his health, or the slick dampness that clings to the walls, rotting them from the inside out. These are just some of the problems of living in the undercity of Kirkwall - beyond the fact that Darktown is run by the Carta. Not only does he have the templars to hide from, but them as well. Something about protection money. Anders assured them he can take care of himself and when he was forced to prove it - well, he just hopes it's enough to keep them off his back. People here don't seem to understand just what being a Grey Warden means. But he's willing to teach them if they push it.

As he slowly makes his way from the clinic, he pauses at the many different shelves he's erected and counts the bandages and poultices. His lyrium is running low, certainly a cause for concern as it's the staple to his healing. Noting to speak with Lirene tomorrow, he turns and walks from the clinic, not bothering to shut the door behind him. There's nothing of value to steal.

He's careful to make sure he's not seen as he ducks through the molded roads of Darktown. His second day down here, he'd managed to swipe some maps off a Grey Warden that he'd been sure had come to hunt him. The maps proved him slightly paranoid but had paid off in another aspect. It showed him all the entrances to Kirkwall as well as the surrounding Deep Roads. The one that interested him most was the path that led him directly from Darktown up into the Gallows. Dangerous to travel alone, as he discovered that same day, he'd kept away from them. Tonight though, this is the path he's decided to take. At least no city guards will see him and the less he's seen sneaking in and out of the Gallows, the better.

For once, the Maker appears to be on his side as he makes his way through the path and up into the Gallows with little trouble. How he loathes the sight of this place. In every direction he looks, all he finds are more statues of tortured slaves. And as if that isn't enough, it's now the mages they house here. Strong images, even if very few are willing to see it. Anders, on the other hand, can't turn away from the sight of the slavers holding the leashes of those they deemed lower than them.

It's the soft bands of light streaming from the moon that light his way through. Night is likely the most foolish time for him to come to such a place, but there are fewer templars. And while he is a mage, he does not wear the typical garb of a circle mage. That alone would be enough to draw attention to him in the daylight.

He steals a step toward the side, pausing at the sound of scuffling. Anders turns. Across the courtyard stands a small group of people. That elf, dwarf, and city guard he'd seen a month ago in the Hanged Man, laughing as they point at something and slink further back. Oh, _Maker_, what has he stepped in?

He falls back into the shadows but follows their line of sight. At the sight of two shadows streaking across the catwalks, Anders presses his back against the wall. Whatever is happening here tonight, these people are likely going to get him in as much as trouble as themselves. Yet, he can't turn away. Templars are perched atop these catwalks, watching for any mages that would dare to escape. It's one of the reasons Anders knows helping Karl escape will be difficult. They are _everywhere_. Still, he watches.

* * *

-Hawke-

* * *

Her soft giggles are the first thing that nearly gives them away. It's only at the last moment before the templar turns that Hawke ducks around a column of stone, her back melding against it. Isabela is one column behind her, doubled over just as Hawke is, sniggering into her hand. _So_ drunk, neither of them realize exactly what it is they are doing. Besides, what's the worst that can happen if they _do_ get caught? A scolding from the templars and sent on their merry way? It isn't as though they are mages, after all. Just out for a little fun - a little _drunken_ fun.

She snickers again, rounding the column as she listens to the templars steps. So far she is in the lead. Though there is a long way to go. Varric decided that they had to start from the entrance, climb up to the high catwalks and then make their way to the absolute other side, where the barracks entrance rests. The challenge isn't won until one of them makes it _into_ the barracks and back out without being escorted by a templar.

Hawke toes a rock and with a playful grin, she stoops down and clutches it in her hand. She hasn't had this much fun since… well, since ever. Her fingers latch onto the column and she dares a peek out to find the templar nearing Isabela. Feeling generous - after all, what fun would it be if one of them is caught so quickly - she lobs the pebble. The templar snaps around at the foreign sound and starts immediately for it, mumbling under his breath.

Hawke makes a break for it immediately, weaving in and out of the columns, hoping to gain distance from Isabela. She hears the soft whisper of Isabela's feet behind her and Hawke almost laughs. This rogue nears a dire lesson in silence.

She darts around the next column, the final one before the long stretch that connects to the two halves of the gallows. It's here she pauses, having spotted the templar crouched low at the last moment. What he is doing, she has no idea. Likely picking fluff off his boot or something, it isn't as though this job is exciting. Hidden from sights entirely, Isabela streaks past her. Enjoying the competition, Hawke reaches out to snag her arm and lope the pirate around, yanking her back to the column before she could expose herself. Hawke's hand clamps over the pirate's mouth, both shaking horribly with their quiet huff of laughter.

"That's twice I've saved your ass," she whispers, having to stretch up to reach the pirate's ear.

Those glossy brown eyes drop to hers and the pirate grins at her. "Well, let me show my appreciation."

Hawke's eyes widen at the feel of the woman slanting her mouth over hers. _Never_ has a woman kissed her before. Hawke's hands fumble at the woman's shoulders, shoving her back. If not for the ale, it might have worked, but instead it's Hawke that stumbles out from behind the column. It's only her quick thinking that allows her to drop down into the shadows before spotted by any of the templars patrolling.

"You did that _purposely!_" Hawke accuses brusquely under her breath.

Her giggle floats down to her. "Of course I did, kitten. I win because I cheat."

Hawke presses against the stone at her back, timing her escape before she's spotted. If the pirate wants to cheat, so be it. She creeps around the corner, finding that templar still plucking at something on his boots. Hawke melds into the shadows and vanishes deftly, something she _knows _this rogue can't do.

She hears Isabela's sharp intake of breath, but ignoring her Hawke continues. Her steps are absolutely silent as she progresses and soon she finds herself hovering behind the templar. She could have distracted him to allow Isabela a chance, but the pirate changed the rules. Hawke flicks a glance back over her shoulder to find the woman clearly trying to plot a way around that are within the rules.

She slides past the templar and is very near the other side when she hears - "Oi! Hold!"

Cursing under her breath, Hawke is about to straighten, sure she's been caught, when she hears a sultry voice rise in the shadows. She dares another glance back to find that same templar bearing down on Isabela, his blade drawn. Hawke's heart leaps into her throat. She should head back, help Isabela, but the pirate turns with a sensual sway to her hips. And just like that, she's claimed the templars attention in an entirely different fashion that Hawke could use to her advantage. Disqualified and now otherwise… preoccupied, Hawke continues, knowing the challenge isn't won until she actually reaches the barracks.

Another pebble has the last templar turning away and stalking toward the noise. Her fingers grip onto the column and with hardly any thought to her own safety, she drops from the catwalks, her fingers digging into the stone to keep her balance. She drops into the shadows, stopping to scope another glance before finally rushing up the stairs. The final barrier, a door that will lead her inside. The only question is what is on the other side of that door. If there's a templar stationed there, how is she to know?

She hovers in the shadows for a moment and then, feeling brave, ducks toward the door and knocks solidly three times. Squealing excitedly under her breath, she dives back into the shadows, counting under her breath how long it takes for the door to open. She's only reached five when the door slams open and heavy armor slides through.

The templar casts a glance around the entry and Hawke chokes on her breath when she feels his eyes slide over her. Finally, with a grunt, he closes the door, clearly returning to his post. Reaching for another pebble, she shrugs. She counts to ten, allowing for the templar to return to his original post before she appears from the shadows again and knocks. Back in the shadows, the door opens after three and this time the templar is snarling under his breath. Hawke draws her bow discreetly and strings the rock. A single breath to steady her trembling fingers and she launches the rock. The patter of it skittering over the stone attracts the templar and sighing through his helmet, he stalks off to investigate.

Hawke creeps from the shadows and presses against the doorjamb. The nearest templars are clear across the barracks. And grinning, she slides through. Just to rub it in Isabela's face, she reaches up and removes a banner hanging from the stone wall with Andraste's flaming sword sewn into it. Laughing, she tucks it into the belt holding her breeches up before sliding back out of the barracks and into the shadows just in time for the templar to return, cursing under his breath about the mages.

With it tucked safely into her belt, her fingers dig back into the stone and Hawke launches herself back up, opting to check on Isabela quickly.

* * *

-Anders-

* * *

It isn't until he catches the faint fluttering of a dark green overtunic that he recognizes the man from the Hanged Man. The one that had the dog curled around his feet. He watches as the shadows press into a column and if he's fairly certain, the other shadow drops down and plants a solid kiss on his lips. Anders thumbs his nose and turns his gaze away, chuckling under his breath. Apparently whatever this is, its two lovers out for a midnight stroll under the moonlight, with the templars to keep them company.

There's a faint howl of laughter from their companions, the dwarf leaning against the city guard as they choke on their air. They must have seen it as well.

When his eyes lift to the last location he saw them, he finds only one shadow, the other having completely vanished. Intrigued he pushes off the wall and starts to round the gallows, following the line of the catwalk until he finally catches sight of the man dropping down the columns as though it's no trouble for him whatsoever.

It isn't until Anders sees him fall to the ground deftly and dive into the shadows that he realizes this just might be the person he needs to help him get Karl out of here. Clearly skilled in stealth, this rogue will know how to help. Anders is impressed when he watches from the safety of his own column as the rogue knocks loudly on the door before diving back into the shadows. When it opens, even he has to slide behind his column to ensure he's not spotted. The door shuts and Anders rounds once more watching the rogue appear from the shadows again. He runs a hand through his hair and reaches down for a pebble. When he knocks once more, Anders ducks again.

Seconds pass when he hears a strange sound, a pebble clattering across the stone near his feet. Cursing, Anders has to dive behind another pillar to avoid being seen. From this spot he watches as the rogue slides into the barracks and out not seconds later, a banner tucked into his belt. Anders lips curve, his head shaking as he realizes this was all a game.

The templar slams his way back into the barracks and not until the door shuts does the rogue pop back out. Anders means to stop him, talk to him, ask him for his help, but the rogue pauses by the column he'd scaled down and launches back up with little difficulty. _Maker_, he's never seen someone climb so effortlessly.

He steps out from the cover of his pillar and watches the rogue pause at the top of the column. Whatever it is he sees up there, Anders doesn't know, but soon he's climbing back down, a soft laugh spilling into the night.

Anders leans against the wall and waits.

He drops, his feet planting soundly on the ground. He's straightening, still chuckling, dragging a hand through his mussed hair once more. When he turns, there's a gasp, and not just from the rogue, but from Anders as well.

"_You!"_ the rogue - and certainly _not_ a man - accuses.

Anders staggers back like he's been struck and his eyes widen at the sight of the woman standing before him. "You…" is all he can think to say as he stares into the face of the woman that saved him from the templars all those years ago.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry this took so long guys! Not only did I get caught up in _Silence_, but then I started working on my own original works haha. So this chapter is for Marianna - who dearly reminded me to update :D I dropped what I was working on immediately to write this haha. Thanks!

Hope you all enjoy and don't forget to lemme know what you think :)

* * *

Chapter 6

-Anders-

"_You_!" the rogue standing across from him accuses in a thick voice.

Anders chokes on his next breath, having forgotten for a moment there to breathe. _Maker_, of all the women in the world to stumble across… it's laughter that spills from his lips, his shoulders shaking beneath it. "Still have a fondness of heights, I see." Trees, columns, hiding and sneaking, it seems she has an aptitude for it that others lack.

He doesn't see it coming, doesn't even think to guard himself from such a thing. He'd like to say that she hits like the girl she is, but that would be a downright lie. It happens so quickly, a blur of movement that he can't even follow. One moment he's laughing and the next, he's reeling - stumbling into the wall, his arms rising to protect himself from whatever blows she might choose to follow through with. The ache immediately sets into his jaw, throbbing from the assault of her small fist. _Maker's breath!_ Where in the void had she learned to hit someone like that?

It's only at the threat of the templars that he manages to swallow back the words rising to the surface. They hover on his tongue and he bites down, straightening to stare the woman in the face. The eyes hidden within the thick veil of shadows watch him, her brows drawn down heavily. So blue, though clouded at the moment.

Anders straightens, though his hands remain limp at his sides. He… _likely_ deserved that. His tongue flicks out, touching the trickle of blood dribbling out from the small gash splitting his lip. Unsure of what to say, he simply stands there, watching as she slowly begins to pace the shadows. Alright, she's angry, he can see that.

He dares to step toward her. His lips part and he suffers a deep breath, about to speak when a lithe dagger slides across his throat, a lengthy arm pressing against his shoulders. His head tips back and he lets loose a sigh. This is _not_ his night.

"One more move, sweet thing, and you'll see who's quicker with a blade."

Where in the void had this one come from?

The one before him pauses in her steps, her head tilting as she analyzes the situation but there's no suggestion for the woman at his back to lower her blade.

"Alright," he breathes. "This could end badly."

"For you," the one standing before him taunts. "Tell me why I shouldn't call for the templars right this moment."

For a brief moment, he's lost to a surge of power, his skin flickering blue. The arm pressed against his neck tightens and the woman before him staggers back. Threatening words deafen him and it's only at the last moment that he's able to tamp it down. Terrorizing those that hold him at knifepoint wouldn't be his smartest decision of the night, though it certainly wouldn't be his worst either. Justice calms with Anders' thoughts, the glow fading back into the shadows.

"What _are _you?" she demands, her fingers sliding up her back as she reaches for her bow.

"A conversation for another time," he whispers darkly. "Might I suggest we all just take a deep breath and this lovely lady at my back lower her weapon before one of us gets hurt?"

A smooth chuckle falls from the one at his back, her hot breath pooling over his neck. "I'm the one with the knife, sweet thing."

"Yes, well, this conversation should be saved for somewhere less anti-mage."

The one before him snorts, returning to her line of pacing, though he notices how uneven it is. Is she… _drunk_?

"Why, so you can rob me again?" she slurs.

He stills, his own brow drawing down with her words. _Rob her_?

"Think I'd forget, did you?" she hisses in the shadows. "Do you know how long it took me to make back all that money you stole from me?"

A moment of clarity sweeps down over him and his cheeks color. He'd forgotten about that! All he remembered was the soft press of her lips against his, the warm brush of her tongue, the gentle press of her fingers… Even now he can recall the feel of her pressed firmly against him and it sparks something low in his stomach.

The rogue at his back is laughing a little louder, enough that Anders' emotions shift to panic. Should the templars hear, he's definitely in trouble.

"You stole from Hawke? Not even I'm stupid enough to do that," the woman laughs.

It's hard to ignore the press of her chest against his back and he shuffles awkwardly, wondering how long until her arm tires. _Hawke_, why is that name so familiar?

"_Hawke!_" a chorus of whispers as her other companions round the wall they're pressed against, their eyes widening at the interesting sight.

"Helping the templars now?" the dwarf chuckles. "Where'd ya find this one?"

Her eyes shift from his for a brief moment to take in her friends. "He found me. And he's leaving now. Let him go Isabela."

Everyone falls still, even him.

"But… Hawke-"

"Release him," she orders again, her voice thickening with anger.

The breasts against his back shift with her heavy sigh and the next moment her arm is gone. Anders can't help it, he rubs at his neck, pleased when he finds not a speck of blood.

"_Leave_," this Hawke orders him before moving toward her friends.

She stumbles and he's reaching for her before he can even think about it. A firm hand presses against his chest just as that elf winds his arms around her, holding her up. The matching glares he's met with are breathtaking. Loyal, these people are. And there's definitely something to be said about that. He needs trustworthy people and this Hawke and company just proved that they are what he needs. Hawke had asked it herself, why shouldn't she turn him into the templars. Yet, with no answer from him, she'd instead ordered his release. Would she be so sympathetic to another mage?

As a group, they turn and begin to creep back out of the gallows, the shadows the only thing hiding them from view of the templars. Without a second wasted, Anders follows after them.

"Wait," he whispers harshly in the dark. Five pairs of eyes turn to him and he has to force himself to swallow. Not a group he would want to fight against. "There's another way," he tells them. "One without templars. Follow me."

The air thickens with hesitation. Finally Hawke awkwardly steps toward him. "You expect me to just trust you?"

He shakes his head, a half-laugh choking him as he struggles to keep quiet. "What do you think I can do against _five_ of you? I just want to help you get out of here without attracting the templars."

"Do not trust the mage," the elf growls snarls.

Anders blinks, a blank stare sliding over his face.

"Oh please, kitten," the other rogue laughs. "The templars are harmless. Once you get past all that armor," she chuckles, leaning heavily on the city guard who shoves her away with a look of disgust darkening her face.

"Where does this path take us?" Hawke demands, peering up at him with those eyes that he'd been able to recall for most nights.

"Darktown," he tells her. "There's something I wish to discuss with you. My clinic is there."

Now it's her that blinks, the dark scowl smoothing away. "A clinic? _You're_ the healer of Darktown?"

He's not sure whether to be insulted by the incredulity smothering her voice or not. "Um, yes?"

She spins, catching the hem of her overtunic and tumbling awkwardly into the other rogue. They share in a soft laugh together and warmth spreads through his stomach at the sound.

"Fine, fine!" she chuckles. "Lead the way, thief mage."

He winces. "I would prefer Anders, if that's alright with you."

She shrugs. "And I would prefer that you hadn't stolen a month of gold from me. Sadly, it looks like neither of us is going to get what we want."

_Touché_. Raking a hand down his face, he turns and leads them to the passageway that brought him here. When he flips up the cover, he watches as the five of them vanish into the depths one at a time, both rogues spilling to the ground - all grace having vanished apparently. When he joins them, it's to find the dwarf trying to help Hawke to her feet as she laughs breathlessly. How quickly her anger has vanished, lost to the liquor likely. He should ask her to come back in the morning, but part of him fears her not returning if he does that.

Grumbling under her breath, Anders' mouth gapes when she suddenly starts tearing off her overtunic and jerkin, leaving her standing in a frilly undershirt.

"Eyes forward, mage," the elf growls next to him.

She's complaining how warm she is, sliding her garments into the arms of the dwarf and asking him to carry it. Her bow string she slings over her shoulders before she clumsily reattaches her belt around her hips, an assortment of daggers glinting in the dim light of the path.

"Much better, kitten," the other rogue purrs as she sidles up next to Hawke.

It feels like his jaw might detach, it hangs so low as he watches them.

"Isabela," Hawke groans, weakly pushing her away. "Thief mage, lead the way!"

His mouth snaps shut and he steps forward, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

It takes quite a bit longer than it had originally to troop back to his clinic. Every few steps one of the rogues started to giggle over something, whether a joke dealt by the dwarf, or some lewd comment from that Isabela. Even Anders cracked a grin here and there. Clearly this band is rather close to one another.

When they _do _reach his clinic, both the rogue's are wilting. His gaze tracks Hawke as she slinks into his waiting room and, with her back against the wall, she slumps down to the floor, resting her head on her knees. As for Isabela, apparently she isn't quite done for the night and takes off, shouting about the Hanged Man and some poor sod named Corff. Cursing, the dwarf and elf take off after her.

"Hawke," the city guard calls to her, crouching down next to the stooped woman. _"Flames_," the woman groans. "She's asleep."

She shakes Hawke's shoulder, shouting in her ear, but nothing worked. Anders only manages to hide his snicker behind his hand. He's fallen victim to such black outs more than once and knows that nothing will work to wake her beyond rest to sleep off the effects.

The woman pushes to her feet, glaring as she turns to him, as though this is his fault. Though, it sort of is. Had he let them return home, she'd likely be in her bed by now.

"Do you have an extra cot here, mage?" the woman asks.

Anders falls still again, his smile wiped clean from his face. _An extra cot?_ "You want her to stay _here_?"

The woman crosses her thick arms over her chest. "Have you another suggestion? I will not carry her from here."

He swallows and drags a hand down his face again. Yes, he has extra cots. Of course, he does. This is a clinic after all. But the idea of this woman sleeping in his clinic for the entire night, with him only a room away…

"You are the healer, are you not?" the woman continues to push.

He nods.

"Well she will require attention tomorrow morning. This is your job."

"It's not a job!" he laughs wearily. "I don't get paid to do this. I do this out of the goodness of my little magey heart."

She nods. "I will return for her in the morning."

She takes a step toward the door before pausing. The glare he suffers under is enough to scare most men out of their wits. Without another word, she simply ducks down and snatches Hawke's purse from her belt. Anders groans and turns, giving her his back. Like he would _steal_ from her… well… again.

It isn't until he hears the door shut behind her that he realizes that city guard just _left_ Hawke on the floor, slumped against her own knees. Cursing, he crosses the room and stares down at her. Part of him just wants to leave her there. It won't be comfortable, not that his cots are either, but for some reason the thought of carrying her to a cot twists his stomach. He's held her before, yes, but that had been a different life. And he'd been a different man.

Sighing, he hangs his head in dejection. He _knows_ he just can't leave her there. He crouches down and lopes one arm under her knees and the other around her back. He expects there to be a hefty weight, but he lifts her so easily. All those glares and armor made her look so much larger than this.

He moves for the cot, his steps faltering when a thin arm curves over his neck and she presses her face into his shoulder, sighing against him, so soft, so simple. Oh, _Maker,_ he did not need to hear that. The cot, _right_, the cot.

He chooses the one furthest from his small little room, hoping it will help, but knowing it won't. It settles beneath her weight and she shifts as he drapes the dusty blanket over her. Aveline was right, she will need help in the morning. And so will he, knowing the night will be a sleepless one.

-.-

-Hawke-

The violent twist of her stomach is what wakes her. It takes a momentous amount of energy to crack her eyes open and when she does, she groans, throwing her arm up to block out the assaulting haze of light blinding her. Nothing is familiar. The air is damp and carries a dour scent that only exasperates her stomach. A bitter sickness rises and at the last moment, her throat clamps around it, tamping it down. And as if that weren't bad enough, beneath it all is a ringing that just won't let up. The air around her seems to be buzzing, throbbing to the beat of her heart.

The humidity to the air is near unbearable, even her skin is slick with it, the thin material of her undershirt clinging piteously to her body. Hair mats her brow and she pushes weakly at it, hoping to keep the locks from her eyes.

Her groan is quite broken and she presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, blocking out the horrid light that only adds to the pounding in her head. She tries to remember all that happened last night, but there's nothing there beyond darkness. It's as though the night doesn't exist. She remembers drinking at the Hanged Man with her friends - celebrating with their newest companion. A pirate, or something? Yes, she clings that that, hoping to continue piecing things together. She recalls a bet of some sort but that's it. The fog of ale remains, clinging to her like a thick cloud.

"Ah, you're awake," an unfamiliar voice murmurs near her.

Hawke darts up from whatever is she lays on, a startled gasp spilling from her dry lips. Through hooded eyes, she glances up, but all she can make out through a haze of fuzziness is a tall man with what looks like a long jacket draped down his length.

She tries to mumble something but it only comes out as a sort of _ungh_. Never would she drink again. This is the worst. Even more so than the time Carver had knocked her head into the wall and she'd been bedridden for two days.

A shaking hand presses against her brow, pushing the heavy mop of hair back once again.

"Hawke?" the curious voice calls to her.

Apparently she knows this person. Her head lifts the slightest amount to peer up at him, but the moment the light falls on her, her stomach twists and her fingers suddenly press against her lips. She doesn't have a chance to even tell this person what is wrong before a pot is placed in her hands. Hawke drops over it, her body contracting as the sickness expels itself from her body. When a comforting hand falls on her back, she shirks away from it. Not exactly the position she wants anyone to see her in.

When it stops, a cold vial presses against her cheek.

"Drink this," she's told and she fumbles for whatever it is.

She prays for water, hoping to swish out this horrid taste in her mouth. She tosses it back, groaning when she moves too quickly.

"Just give it a few minutes. I promise you'll feel better."

Sure enough, after an eternal stretch of time, her stomach relaxes and her hands stop shaking. She's about to glance up at the person once more when chilled hands fall on her face. The air thickens with magic and it caresses within her. This time she gasps and darts to her feet. She doesn't know any mages. Where in the Maker's name is she?

Her eyes snap open and she finds herself standing in a room she's never seen before. The walls are slick with rot, the air heavy and thick with moisture, and all around them is a thick blackdamp that chokes out the air.

The mage is still blurred and she blinks, hoping to clear away the bleariness. Slowly, he begins to take shape from the lengthy supple boots that conform around his legs, to the dark breeches, and long jacket covered in a paldron of feathers. Leather straps crisscross the length of his body, holding it all together. Her eyes continue to climb the wide jaw graced with a faint dusting of stubble, to the long and narrow nose, before settling on the very light russet eyes.

"_You!_" she gasps, her hand falling to her belt only to find her it devoid of her purse.

His sigh is so frustrated as his head falls back to stare at the ceiling. "I thought we went through all this last night."

"Last night!" she squeaks, glancing down to find herself clothed only in her breeches and undershirt. Oh, _Maker_, what did she do last night?

"_No_," he groans. "Let's just skip past _that_ little awkwardness and discuss what I wanted to last night before you passed out in my clinic."

"Clinic," she muses, gazing around in wonder. "So _you're_ the healer mage?"

He drops his head into his palms. "Maybe you shouldn't drink anymore. Yes, I'm the healer mage. Yes, this is my clinic. No, nothing happened between us last night. Yes, you won the bet between you and Isabela. Can we move on now?"

She nods with wide eyes. The bet... she remembered bits of it. Something about the gallows... where she'd run into _him_. With narrowed eyes, she watches him as he lowers into a decrepit chair with his back to her. "Anders, right?" she asks, able to recall some patches of the night before.

"Yes."

She nods and lowers back down onto the coat, her legs still a bit shaky. "My name is Marian Hawke."

The chair scrapes against the planks of wood, adding to the many different scratches that mar the floor.

"_Marian Hawke?_" he repeats with very wide eyes. Now, it's him that pales and his hand presses against his brow as he stoops forward on the chair. "You're Carver Hawke's sister."

Hawke's breath catches and she scrambles forward, stopping only when she stands in the middle of the clinic. "You know my brother?"

He nods so slowly. "We were Grey Wardens together."

She pauses, her shaking fingers going white as she struggles to hold herself up against the cot. "You're... a Grey Warden as well?"

Her impression of him shifts immediately. That quickly, respect begins to develop for him. She may have only known Peter personally, but Cousland had saved her life as well as helped her when she'd been injured. She remembered the look of devastation they'd each shared at the news of their fallen comrades. The senior Grey Warden, Alistair, had taken the news badly. She'd felt for him, unsure of how to help him. She and Carver had lost their father years before but even then, they never spoke of it.

He shifts in his chair, a curious glance slanting her way. She feels... shaken at this news. All she remembers is the mage that had pinned her against a tree and nearly kissed her senseless. But that had been years ago.

"P-Please," she stammers. This is the moment she's been waiting for. Four months had passed with no information of her brother. All they know is that the Blight had been ended and Cousland had been named consort to Queen Anora. She'd heard talk of a 'Hero' that buried his blade into the skull of the archdemon, but no one seems to know that name or the outcome for that particular Grey Warden. "Do you know of my brother? Does he live?"

The mage's eyes narrow. "You were not told?"

She wraps her arms around her waist to hide their shaking. Her knees, unfortunately, she can't hide how badly they tremble.

The mage sees this and rises from the chair, his hands falling onto her shoulders. "Breathe," he tells her gently, tucking a short stray hair behind her ear. "Your brother is just fine."

A stuttered breath falls past her lips and she suddenly feels weak. He helps her back over to the cot and she drops down onto it, her head resting against her knees. Four months, she'd been telling herself he's just fine, but she'd never believed it.

"Or he was a month ago when I left the Wardens."

She feels the stray tears pricking at her eyes but she wipes them away. She doesn't know this mage well enough to weep in front of him, not that she would weep in front of anyone. But the news that her brother is fine is staggering. Especially after losing Bethany.

"Thank you," she whispers so quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," his voice is so low. "There is a reason I brought you here. I need your help with something."

"Anything," she chokes out a watery laugh before glancing up at him with tears in her eyes. "You don't understand what this means to me."

He shifts back from her, dropping his gaze to his boots. "Don't say that just yet. Not until you hear what I'm asking."

She falls silent and allows him to speak. The tale he spins is staggering; how he ran from the Wardens and came here to save a friend - a man named Karl. She listens with open ears, too grateful from the information he provided to turn him down. He speaks of templars and she feels the usual anger rise in the lowest pits of her stomach. Regardless of the fact that her family has been robbed of all its magic, she still loathes the Order; for the fear they put in her sister and the father they stole from her. She knows she isn't the only one to suffer from such offenses. She can see it in the fine shivers passing over the Grey Warden that stands before her.

"The templars bring injustices down on the mages," she whispers to him when he finishes. The man stills, his eyes widening as he now listens to her. "I may not be one, but I'm not blind. I've witnessed more atrocities than I am sure you can even imagine." And she had. Living in Lothering hadn't kept her safe from such sights. Templars often chose to travel through their little village on their way to Denerim or wherever it was they were traveling. Apostates as well. There'd been more than once that Hawke had bore witness to the abuses dealt onto the mages. And from what she'd seen, not a single one had been a blood mage, committing crimes. They were simply people, trying to find their way in life, to _experience_ it as her parents had managed for Bethany. But her father had paid dearly for that.

She closes her eyes, lost to the images of her father, struck down in the middle of the fields he used to chase her through, laughing as they startled the chickens. She fights it back, knowing this isn't the time. Not in front of this Grey Warden.

When her eyes crack open, he's watching her and there's a tender look to his eyes that robs her of breath. For a moment they share a moment of understanding. She may not be a mage, but she's aware of _all_ they go through. She'd just been lucky enough to skirt past the system.

"The templars never got their hands on Bethany," she tells him. It hurts to speak her name and her heart flutters with it. "Not before the darkspawn did, anyways," she admits. And she doesn't know why she's telling him this. Maybe so that he'll realize that he's not the only one in this little clinic that loathes the Order. "I made _sure_ they never touched her. If I can be of assistance to you and your friend, it will be my pleasure."

His throat works as he struggles for words. "I-I don't know what to say," he chokes out a half-laugh. "No one has ever so willingly helped me. Twice," he chuckles weakly. "Help me with this and I promise I will repay you, in whatever you need."

She nods and they share in a small smile before she drops her eyes back down. "I have one question, though."

"Anything," he breathes, his steps carrying him a little closer to her.

She still can't believe that Carver is alive. She needs to find a way to get a letter to him. That might be something this Grey Warden can help with, tell her where to send it so that it'll reach him. He needs to know about Bethany. "Where's my purse?" she asks.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Yay, finally! Another chapter! I don't know what happened this week, but for some reason was so tired, I had no desire to write. And am still suffering from a horrid writer's block for Shattered Glass. I'm hoping that my fingers will actually do some work on that one soon... so please bear with me! Thanks to everyone who's favorited/subscribed/reviewed/read, etc. Glad to hear you all are enjoying the small little changes I've been making :) Hopefully you like this chap just as much. Lemme know!

* * *

Chapter 7

-Hawke-

* * *

"This is the back entrance to your ancestral estate?" Varric muses, his arms crossing over his chest as he gazes up at the oddly dilapidated door. It dangles from the hinges, swaying to a nonexistent breeze. The key she'd looted from her uncle seems almost unnecessary. But hanging as it is, it still remains locked. Not that it would be difficult to simply lift it off the hinges and set it aside.

"That's what Gamlen's been going on about," Hawke sighs. _If _this is the place, it certainly isn't what she'd expected. After all her mother had gone on about this place, she'd expected grand columns and vaulted ceilings. Not... a swaying door that looks as though at any moment it will crumble into a fine dust just by looking at it.

"Gamlen," Varric laughs. "That man wouldn't know the truth if Bianca bit him in the ass with it."

Hawke simply shrugs. It isn't as though that's a lie. "I trust his drunken confessions over his sober," she mutters darkly. "Besides we'll know shortly if he was telling the truth if this key works."

"Fair enough," he comments as he slides Bianca out of her holster, caressing her smooth wood.

"And if not, we can just break in and have a peek anyway," Isabela laughs.

There's a faint sound from behind her, an almost choking laugh and when she turns, she finds Anders leaning precariously against his clinic doors, watching with an amused light to his eyes. "I'm impressed we didn't met before if you spend your free time sneaking about Darktown, pilfering abandoned estates."

She brushes the fringe of hair blocking her sight, lips pressing down into a fine line. "No one is pilfering anything," she decides. "We're just here to see if my grandfather's will can be found."

His brow quirks upward and he pushes off the wall, arms falling limp to his sides. "This is _your _estate?"

She crosses her own arms, slanting away from him as he nears her. Is it so hard to believe that she may come from nobility? "What of it?" she asks briskly.

His lips tug upward, hands thrown up as he comes to a stop. "Just asking. If you need another, I'd be happy to tag along."

For some reason her stomach clenches at the thought.

"A healer might be useful," Varric murmurs next to her, clearly sensing her lack of enthusiasm.

The mage on the other hand turns innocent eyes her way. And she knows, she has to ask. "What do you get out of this?"

He stills, that innocent gaze narrowing. "What's _that _supposed to mean?"

The pirate next to her is rocking with mirth, her laughter very close to spilling past those swath lips.

Her nose wrinkles as she takes him in, but finally, with a less than quiet sigh, she waves her hand. "Nothing. Come if you want."

She feels his stare burn through her but eventually his head dips and he approaches the group. There is something... unsettling about him. A Grey Warden, there's no doubt in her mind he can fight. In fact, he'd likely put them all to shame if the situation were called for. Yet, there's still a strange thread worming through her stomach. And when his shoulder brushes against hers, she falls still, her fingers tingling. Even he grows rigid before casting a blank stare down on her. For some reason, she can't stop shifting her eyes to his lips, remembering the soft press of them against hers as he backed her into the tree. Her first and only kiss - that's why she can't stop thinking about it. And this is not the time, or the place, to let such thoughts take a walk about through her mind.

"Hawke?" Isabela waggles her fingers between them and she startles, shifting back to face the estate as he clears his throat.

"What?" Hawke questions in a breathy voice.

A sinister grin curves the pirate's lips and she shifts back, sharing a glance with Varric. "Oh nothing, kitten," she chuckles. "I just thought that maybe we could get along with why we're here. But if you two want to play the dangerous apostate and the naughty rogue, I'm alright with that as well."

Horror lines Hawke's insides as she listens to Isabela. How she _regrets _telling the pirate how they met years back. Even Anders appears uncomfortable, his weight shifting back toward his clinic as though he intends to run. By the void, Hawke wants to join him. Anything to escape the piercing stare that accompanies that wretched smile.

"You," Hawke mutters darkly as she slides past Isabela, "are a horrible person."

"I know," she chuckles, her face positively glowing with amusement at her new friend's behalf.

Eyes firmly pointed at the door, she pulls from her pocket the burnished key she picked from her uncle that morning after returning from Anders' clinic. It slides in with little resistance and when she turns it, the lock gives a smooth click. It appears to be the only thing still in working order. The door creeps open, an eerie creak lifting the hairs on the back of her neck.

"Well, now," Varric murmurs as he peeks around her. "It would seem, for once, that Gamlen is telling the truth."

Hawke's lips press down into a grim line and she nods. "Let's just hope it's the only thing he was telling the truth about."

She goes to step inside when a large hard curves over her arm. Her eyes drop to it before she's turned.

"What else did he say?" Anders asks, peering over her head into the thick shadows.

"That this place is used by slavers." She tries to ignore the rush she feels under his touch and shrugs her arm loose of his grip. His face darkens from her words and that hand immediately climbs up his back to grasp his staff. Her bow remains strapped to her back but her fingers dance down to her daggers.

She meets each of their gazes and silently they step within the estate. It's natural for Hawke to keep to the shadows - Queen Rogue, as she's now been named - and she does so, scoping out the rooms as they pass by. They appear to be in some old cellar, the wood occasionally creaking under Anders' and Varric's weight. Isabela moves seamlessly along the walls, knowing where not to step, but still visible. Varric, another rogue, depends little on the shadows. When Hawke asked him about this, he shrugged and claimed that his skills are more for stabbing people in the back and picking locks. A lock picker, herself, she understands the addiction to such a thing. The back stabbing part makes her nervous. If she's ever to be betrayed, she'd prefer it to be face to face.

They pass by corrugated boxes of wine and she can't resist, not with the deft fingers she possesses. They seal around the dry, slightly chilled bottle and she lifts it to the light. The name has faded from the seal and with a shrug, she pops the cork and lifts it to her nose; sweet and nutty almost. A single shoulder lifts and her lips seal around the rim, the smooth liquid touching her tongue.

"Really, Hawke?" Anders sighs in the dark. "After last night, you'd think you'd have had enough."

She lowers the bottle. "Lighten up, sparkle fingers, I just wanted to try it, see if it's any good."

Even in the dark, she catches the blank look that slides over his face. "_Sparkle fingers_?"

The corners of her lips pull up. "Better than thief mage, don't you think?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something about her brother and just as insufferable. A swell of pride bursts like a sun within her but she presses forward without another word, the bottle of wine passed back to Varric so he can taste it. He mutters his approval followed quickly by Isabela's.

"We'll have to grab some more to take back with us," Varric comments. Nothing wrong with free ale. Though, Anders isn't entirely wrong. She knows she'll never drink that much again.

They reach the first set of stairs, clearly leading up into the actual estate. Hawke's hand lifts and she tells them to hold as she creeps silently up the stairs. Ear pressed firmly to the solid wood grained door, she makes out four if not five voices on the other side. A few words she can make out - something about prices fetched for the slaves. Her throat clamps down on her anger, tamping it back. After traveling with Fenris, the concept sparks a rage in her that burns as wild as fire. She'd never dealt with slavery in Ferelden, her country outlawed it long ago. But here... the city seems to breathe it.

She slides back down the stairs, snickering quietly when the dwarf startles at her rather sudden appearance. Anders, on the other hand, just flicks a smile at her, as though he could see her the entire time. And maybe he can. She's run into a few people who had the ability to track those rummaging through the shadows.

"A group," she whispers so not to be heard above. "Four, maybe five. Nothing we can't handle."

"Wait, you intend to kill the slavers?" Anders asks, incredulity coating his voice.

She shares a look with Varric and they both shrug. "Well, yes?"

The mage chuckles under his breath. "Alright, now I see the difference between you and Carver. Much more impetuous." For a moment she wonders if that's a compliment or insult. Her lips part with the intent to ask when he continues. "What about when the city guard finds out?"

It's Hawke that laughs this time. "That would entail the city guard even cares. Don't know if you've noticed but things aren't the greatest in Kirkwall. The templars are only concerned with the mages, and the mages the templars. The city guards are only concerned with the ongoings in Hightown with the fancy nobles. And the Viscount only cares about the qunari. Lowtown and Darktown are left to their own devices. And I don't know about you, but I really dislike the idea of disgusting slavers using my ancestral home. So... I'm going in. Whoever wants to come may do so, those that don't, can wait here or return to their clinic."

"Of course I'm coming," he mock growls, sweeping past her so quickly, the bottom of his staff knocks against her knees.

A shock of energy darts up her legs and flourishes in her stomach. Her eyes water instantly and she swallows a gulp of air. "Not fair, mage," she chokes on her words. Bethany used to do that to her all the time as children. A simple shock, but something her sister seemed to enjoy doing, as does this mage if the satisfied grin claiming his lips is evidence of anything.

"Don't call me sparkle fingers and I won't have to zap you every time I walk past."

Her eyes light with the challenge. So, he likes to play games. He's certainly not the only one. In fact, she still owes him for the first game he ever played on her.

She straightens and swallows the worm of anxiety snaking through her. She stalks forward, a little sway to her hips that he notices with wide eyes. Her fingers slide into the collar of his jacket and she yanks him down, those russet eyes falling on her once. And just as he did all those years ago, she claims his mouth. He falls utterly still, though his lips do move against hers. For a moment she forgets her intent, lost to the feel of his mouth pressed firmly against hers. It seems in all the years, she has not forgotten how it feels. Her stomach leaps at the sensation of their tongues meeting in a slow dance and it's only at the last moment she remembers why she's done this. Distracted as he is, her fingers slowly creep to his side and remove him of the small purse she'd seen hanging there before they entered.

Laughter rises behind them, one choking with delight, the other disbelief. When Hawke breaks away from the kiss and slides back, he remains in his stooped over position, his eyes slowly fluttering open. There's a faint blush to his cheeks, one that sends a strange thrill down to her stomach. She bites down on her lower lip, ignoring the temptation to cross back over and taste him again. His eyes open and meet hers, pinning her in place.

* * *

-Anders-

* * *

She... kissed him.

He stands there, looking the part of the fool, only able to see her even while Isabela and Varric dance circles around one another, laughing in these quiet chuckles that do little for his nerves.

_She _kissed _him_.

And now she stands before him, though she seems a little shaken. He certainly _feels _shaken. The taste of sweet wine hovers on his lips. He hasn't ever realized how addicting that taste can be on another. Even Justice is silent, as though he's just as shocked. Neither had expected such a thing to happen. Not after the anger she'd shown him the night before.

She smiles and it isn't sweet or innocent, it's devious and playful; mischievous, one might say. What confuses him further is the leaping of his heart at the sight of it. He may only have been in her presence for less than twenty four hours, but it's easy to presume she likes to cause trouble. Something her brother had greatly eluded to. The stories he would tell of one Marian Hawke... How could he _not _have made the connection? Anders had been intrigued by her, listening as her brother spoke of the larders she would sneak into, even the Chantry on more than one occasion. He'd even spoken of a friend Hawke had made when returning home from the Ostagar battle of some qunari prisoner named Sten that had assisted with the Blight. Apparently their mother's tirade had been endless and Hawke had snuck out in the darkest hours of the night to sit before this cage. After days of silence, it seems she finally broke the poor creature and he made an acquaintance of her. Her lock picking skills had come in handy, releasing the man and telling him to help her brother. Anders had nearly choked on his own breath when hearing that story. Of course she would befriend a qunari. Carver had told him in confidence once that he was certain the qunari _likes _his sister. As much as one could. Watching her now, a shy demeanor slowly claiming her, dimming the glow of that grin, Anders can see exactly how much someone can like her.

And with that thought, Justice roars back to life, his thoughts on the woman not the friendliest. Anders tamps back his voice, throwing clean the deafening thoughts. He calms the spirit by agreeing with him. They came to Kirkwall for a reason and it was not to get wrapped up in one Marian Hawke.

"Let's continue, shall we," she breaks off the laughter and skirts past him, casting him a side-long glance as she does. He follows blithely, his steps awkward as he struggles to find his way. Is he too close, not close enough? Never has a woman conflicted him so. He's had plenty of romps with many, many women. And never has he felt this confused.

"Afterward, the drinks are on me," she chuckles, patting her side. "To... celebrate revenge."

There's a strange thread to her voice. Revenge for what? For reclaiming her estate from the slavers? He supposes there's a form of revenge in that.

So he follows. Tonight, she will help him with Karl. They've already planned it all out. But after that, he needs to sever whatever connection this is. She can return to her world of sneaking and reclaiming her noble title and he can return to the shadows of Darktown. Two different worlds, and never should the two mix.

-.-

"Will you join us for a drink?" that breathy voice breezes in his ear. He startles, flicking a glance back to find she'd followed him into the clinic.

He swallows past the lump and steps back. "Uh, no. I probably shouldn't. I'll meet you at the Chantry."

A faint pout claims her lower lip and she steps up to him once more. There it is again, that devious curl of lips. "Oh, come on. I'm buying the drinks."

"I couldn't let you..." he breaks off, still shaking his head.

She sighs, a hip cocking out, supporting the weight of her hand. "Alright, well what if you're buying the drinks?"

He pauses, his head tilting at the playful gleam to her eyes. He blinks... and finally his eyes drop down to the two smallish purses hanging off her belt. _Andraste's knickers_! When... how...

"Hawke," he groans, his hand raking down his face as he gives his back to her. _That _had been why she'd kissed him. Her form of revenge, as she'd said.

Her gentle chuckle spins him back around and he finds her slanted against the wall of his clinic, fingers caressing the small coin purse. He can't help but laugh. He deserves it, surely.

"Well, if I'm buying, I guess I have no choice," he laughs.

"Damn straight," she murmurs.

When she turns and stalks out of his clinic, Anders trails after her. A day, that's the length of time he's spent in her presence and he knows he's already in trouble. Though, if he's to be honest with himself, this started years ago.

More than once he'd recounted to Carver the tale of the woman he'd pressed against a tree as thanks for saving his ass from the templars.

Even now he can remember it as clear as the sun that had been shining that day. When she'd called to him, made that tiny _psst _sound, he'd thought he'd been hearing things. But sure enough, there above him was someone clinging through the trees. He'd thought her to be a man, wrapped up in that same overtunic she wears to this day. It wasn't until he heard her voice that he realized it was a woman. He darted up immediately, for some reason instantly trusting that she wouldn't turn him over to the templars. Never had he seen someone so adept with a bow, leading the templars in an entirely different direction. When he'd swung down to her branch, those startling blue eyes, as clear as sapphires, struck something within him. She certainly was not a man. Her hood had fallen back and he found the mussed short hair to be attractive, the dark fringe hovering before her eyes adding a small intrigue. He'd wanted to brush it from her eyes but he settled for a kiss, knowing at any moment those templars could return. He'd never described what she looked like to Carver - he wanted to keep that to himself and now he's grateful. He can only imagine how her brother would respond if he'd learned he'd gotten frisky with his sister. The one thing he'd learned about Carver is that he's protective of his sister. Joining the Grey Wardens had been the most difficult decision, he'd told Anders. Because he knew after their stint in the army, she wouldn't follow him. And leaving her... well, Anders had seen the weight of that decision on the poor boys shoulders. Apparently they had bonded tightly with one another throughout their childhood. She'd learned how to wield a dagger by a village guard who had taken a shine to her. And she'd immediately brought Carver to him to learn the sword. All to protect their sister mage.

He continues to stumble after her, wondering how upset she would be that he knows so much about her, all because her brother missed her. Anders had listened aptly to Carver speak about her, his intrigue growing every day. Little did he know the women they spoke of were one in the same. More than once he found himself jealous of his comrade. Anders had no family, no ties to this world whatsoever. Becoming a Grey Warden had been no skin off his nose, he had no one to lose. Becoming one had meant freedom for him. Until he'd gone down into the Deep Roads and realized just how much more trapped he'd become.

What he finds most enterprising is that she'd been a part of the Ferelden army. In all the time he's spent free of the tower, the women were far too concerned with their dresses and flowers, rather than weapons and battle strategies. Carver had informed him how quickly their superiors had taken to her, her skills with the bow acclaimed. Before today, he'd witnessed her skill, but that situation had been play compared to what he saw today. Watching her in the estate, he still isn't sure if all he saw is real. She'd switch seamlessly between blade and bow, and never did he catch sight of it. She hadn't been kidding when she'd said four or five slavers would not be a problem for them. They'd cleared out the estate with very little injury to any of them. In fact, the worst he'd had to heal was a nail through a foot, and that'd been because the dwarf hadn't been paying attention to where he'd been waking.

Apparently, just like him.

He stumbles into something, eyes lifting from the cracked pavement to find he's run into someone's back; Hawke's, in fact.

She chuckles as she turns to glance over her shoulder. "Lost in thought?" she teases before her hand closes around the tavern door and yanks it open. Her voice is swallowed by the laughter, but he's almost certain he hears her announce that the drinks are on him. He shakes his head and lets out a low laugh, _hoping_ that she doesn't actually use all this gold.

* * *

-Hawke-

* * *

The air is thick with silence. Shadows creep among the walls, shifting with what little light is provided. She lurks among them, throwing a few pebbles at the last moment to distract the few guards wandering about. Normally, guards wouldn't be much cause for concern, but sneaking into the Chantry to break out a mage is not something she wants to be seen doing.

She urges her small group forward - Anders, Fenris, Isabela, and Dread. Fenris certainly hadn't been enthused when finding out what their task of the night was. A few small smiles and bribery with some very nice wine finally had him leaving the estate - though not willingly. Even now she can hear the growly grumbles under his breath. His dislike of Anders had set in immediately and Hawke can't see that letting up anytime soon. Of course, it isn't as though the mage tries to help the situation, bickering with him as he seems to enjoy doing. Hawke had turned them out since entering Hightown. Their arguments are enough to give even her a headache.

At the entrance of the Chantry, Hawke turns and signals for Anders and Isabela to take the left. Splitting the two men up is all she can think of at that moment. As for her and Fenris, they are to go right. She's not sure what to expect in the Chantry at night, but it seems doubtful that it'd be abandoned. They split. Hawke's gaze lifts to the elf next to her, watching with a small smile as his shoulders unwind and his white-knuckled fingers slacken against his blade.

"Why are we doing this?" he hisses in her ear as she steps flush against the wall, peeking around the corner.

She doesn't answer. She's known from the beginning that Fenris loathes anything magical and when she's feeling generous, even she'll admit it's with justifiable reasoning. She ignores his repeat of the question and instead nudges Dread and points him up those stairs. He utters a low _whoof_ before taking them four at a time.

"Hawke," Fenris growls, finally catching her attention.

Waiting for Dread, she sighs and turns to him. "Because…" she doesn't really have an answer that Fenris will understand. Because the Chantry and the circle is all her sister feared growing up, and she wouldn't have any other mage suffer such a life? He wouldn't understand. And she doesn't expect him to.

Her lips spread into an exasperated grin and she shrugs - a simple crook of her shoulders that does little to help convince him.

"Because we are," is all she can think to say. It isn't sufficient. He snarls quietly, his shock white hair falling before his eyes as he turns to glare at the man climbing the stairs next to the pirate across the Chantry.

"And afterward? Will he continue to travel with us?"

This piques her curiosity and she follows his line of sight, watching as they struggle to keep silent. "I don't know," she admits honestly. In grace of their newly budding acquaintanceship and as repayment of their previous encounter, he had insisted that she use his gold to purchase the drinks. Varric had leapt at the offer, ordering an immediate round for the entire table. What Hawke didn't tell them is that she'd used her own. Pilfering estates that once belonged to her family, looting the bodies they killed for their possessions that can be put to use, completing the odd jobs that might not be the most honest, these things she's fine with. But stealing the gold of someone she is traveling with is not. After this, she intends to return to him.

Ducking around the corner once more, she finally darts out with Fenris hot on her heels. Dread stands at the top of the stairs, huffing lightly under his breath. Anders and Isabela are crossing over to their side, clearly having found nothing. So it would seem the Chantry actually is abandoned.

"Does this seem… odd to you?" she mumbles under her breath at Fenris, turning to catch him practically hovering over her, his blade clenched defensively as though _he's_ protecting _her_.

His head dips and those startling pools of emerald shift to hers. "Yes," is all he says.

Good to know it isn't only her that feels it.

She pushes up the stairs, bringing their party together once more. "Nothing," she tells them. She expects the usual signs of relief; slumping shoulders, sighs, anything. But Anders' gaze is pointed over her head, his jaw set in a firm line. She's almost afraid to turn. But she does, her eyes immediately landing on another mage. It isn't this that has Anders all tight. It's the sunburst burned into the flesh of his brow and blank stare. Their father had preached to them more than once about tranquils, even though she isn't a mage. And her sister had expressed her fear of becoming one of them. Hawke never understood. Beyond the expected horror of not being able to feel emotion, she'd always wondered what the big deal is. Staring into the face of this mage, understanding washes over her like a bright light. There's nothing _left_ to this man. Simply a shell of something that might once have existed.

A choked cry rises at her back, but she knows who it came from. And when she glances back, she finds Anders' hands pressed flat against his face, cupping his face as that strangled moan tumbles into his palms. She waits for him to collect himself. Minutes pass before finally those hands fall back to his sides and he turns eyes half-veiled with tears to her. Something pulls on her heart and she remembers his words, telling her how he had come here specifically to help this friend. She knows the bitter taste of failure and loathes that it coats the back of her tongue even now.

"Hello, Anders," comes a voice devoid of any tone. They're just words.

"Karl-" he chokes out his friend's name, about to stumble past them all when Hawke's hands curve over his arm. She's not sure why she grabbed him, perhaps to stop him from approaching. Either way, the mage she clutches at turns to her with a dark snarl, one that twists his face until all that remains is a shadow of the man she's spent the day with, and he throws her hand clean of his arm. She stumbles back, her balance off kilter.

Hands wrapped in armor made of claws clutch gently at her side, steadying her, and a foul string of Arcanum renders the awkward silence that spread among them. "_Do not touch her, mage_," Fenris all but bellows.

Hawke intends to remind him that _she_ actually touched _him_, but Anders has already shifted away from them, his steps carrying him slowly toward the tranquil mage.

"I was too late," he rambles, his voice carrying in an echo within the Chantry walls. "I tried, Karl…" he continues in a broken imitation of his voice.

She's not sure what possesses her, but she slides her arm out of Fenris' grasp and crosses behind him. He just sounds so… damaged.

"Anders," she whispers, her hand brushing against the swell of his back. Whatever she intends to say is swallowed by the the sharp clang of armor. They turn together as one to find themselves surrounded by men draped in heavy steel. "A trap," is what she whispers instead.

There's a faint shift to the air and before she can throw her arms up in defense, a beryl light explodes throughout the room. Something slams into her side and sends her sprawling back into a wall. She struggles to right herself, her lids fluttering open to find that it's actually a figure pressed against her. Someone shoved her into the wall and from the spiky armor pressed against her, it's obvious who it is.

As for the energy she could feel crawling under her skin, the source stands in the center of the room, where she'd _been_, smoke pooling from his eyes as wave after wave of magic pulses from his feet. His staff glows with the silvered essence of the fade, his jacket rising at his knees as though floating on a non-existent breeze. Never has she seen anything like it and her heart drops into her stomach as a stony silence consumes the room.

"What… in the Maker," she finally breathes against Fenris' back, unable to turn away from the sight of Anders all aglow and radiating such power.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Next chap! Woo! For some reason, this seems to be the only story cooperating with me right now *le sigh*. I think we're only two or three chapters away from the surprise chap I have planned, focusing on Funalis :D Can't wait! Huge props to The Original Frizzi for helping me completely mangle the Chant of Light in this chapter haha, without you, well... it wouldn't have been as funny! Lemme know what you think!

* * *

Chapter 8

-Hawke-

* * *

The mattress conforms to her weight and she stares ahead at the walls, hands stained red. They lay limp in her lap, fingers curled inward toward her wrists. Dread lies at her feet, peering up with those soft brown eyes. He's just as quiet as she, as though the blood shocks him as well. She feels... empty. Never has she slain a templar before. The only ones she's ever envisioned doing so were the ones that killed her father. And even then, her mother had pulled her away before she could. Hours later, she can still feel their flesh splitting under her dagger as she sought out their weak spots, she can still hear their grunts and groans. It'd been a trap for Anders. She knows this, yet it's hard to look at that as justification for murdering a small battalion of templars. And that _thing_... what in the Maker's name had Anders turned into? He'd run out of the Chantry so quickly after slaying his friend, Karl, she hadn't been given the chance to ask. Isabela, Fenris, Dread, and Hawke had just stood there, staring down at the lumps of bodies strewn over the floor, dazed and confused. The Knight-Commander would hear of it, surely. And when she did, all their lives would be forfeit.

A soft knuckled knock raps against her door but Hawke can't think beyond the blood. Her mother's voice, soft and caring for once, rises but she doesn't answer. Gamlen and her mother, both, had seen her enter the hovel - pale faced, drenched, and silent.

"Marian," her mother murmurs. "I'm coming in."

The door scrapes open and a sliver of light pours over her face. She doesn't move.

"Oh, darling," her mother breathes.

Since Lothering, she finally looks at her daughter and when Hawke lifts her eyes, she sees concern lit within. But it's not her mother she wishes to speak with.

"What happened?" her mother asks.

A creak sounds and Hawke's eyes shift to find her uncle hovering in the door, listening and watching. She still hasn't given her mother the will she'd found earlier in the day. Proof that her parents had forgiven her and evidence that Gamlen had spent every last gold. It would drive a wedge between them. But she couldn't leave her mother to rot here, not in Lowtown. Having the power of the Amell name, her mother could be somebody again.

Hawke rakes a hand down her stained face. Death shouldn't bother her. She's seen more than enough of it to last her a lifetime. The war, her sister, her father... Yet, this bothers her. She hates templars, likely more than the common person. But that doesn't mean they deserved what had become of them.

Her stomach hardens. And what of Anders? Did he deserve what they had planned for him? Even though the creature he'd become had been terrifying, absolutely, not once did that magic turn on them. The templars had made his friend tranquil, simply for being outspoken. She knows the laws of the Chantry - that's illegal. So why is she sitting here, feeling guilty for slaying men that had come to do the same to Anders? Simply because he possesses magic.

Her eyes narrow, her hands clenching at her side. She needs to speak with him, now. Find out what he is. And what exactly is happening in Kirkwall.

She rises from the bed and draws the will from her inner pocket before handing it to her mother. When she crosses through the door, her hands fall on Gamlen's shoulder. She doesn't blame him for what he's done. They'd been in Ferelden, not here.

"Good luck, uncle," she murmurs to him before sliding out the door with Dread hot on her heels.

* * *

-Anders-

* * *

It is safe to say he's ruined. He came here to start anew, to save his friend, and he's failed at both. In front of not only the templars, but Hawke, Fenris, and Isabela, he'd unearthed himself. He'd shown them exactly the monster he is - revealed everything. But those templars… even now, his fists clench with the thought of them. Karl had been a good man and did not deserve what had become of him.

It'd been Hawke's dagger that had slid through his gut, as easy as butter, seamless and no resistance. She'd offered it after telling him to do what his friend bids him. How easily she looked upon it. As though it had simply been another death to her. So calculating and distant. Part of him wants to hate her for being able to look at it in such a detached manner. He's killed many; but do darkspawn compare to human lives? Sure, he's slain bandits and even men that rose against Cousland, but a friend? She appeared so heartless. Gone was the teasing and jokes and in its place a stony exterior. Which is the real face? And _why_ in the Maker's name is he even thinking about this right now?

_Foul_ curses spill from his lips and he turns to the wall, his hand placed against the rotted wood to balance him. It's more than a struggle to tamp back the emotions swirling in the lurid depths beneath the surface, where Justice lies. The image of Karl flashes before his eyes and he lets out a displeased howl, his hand fisting seconds before it slams into the wall. With the soft crunch of bone comes the immediate pain, lancing through his fingers. A frantic laugh spills from his lips and he stares at the cracks in the wall, webbing away from his hand.

He failed. It's as simple as that. He'd come to free Karl and in doing so, his friend has lost his life. And Anders… little doubt rests with him that _one_ of them would report him to the templars. It wouldn't be Hawke, not after the way she spoke of her father and sister. But the Tevinter elf likely. They'd sweep down on this clinic in all their strength and he wouldn't be able to hold against them. They'd name him maleficar without even waiting to find out the details and either slay him on the spot or turn him tranquil.

"Now, what could the wall have possibly done to deserve such a beating?" a chipper voice rises behind him. It's forced. He might not have known her more than a day yet, but he can hear the tremor of fear worming its way through it. She's frightened of him. _What did you expect?_ His voice this time, not the spirits. So rare that happens, it shocks him into a stony silence.

His shoulders slump under the defeat and he drops his brow against the cool wall. His voice is haggard, the edges ragged and weary, but it comes. "What do you want, Hawke?"

Even he's startled at his bluntness and he slants a glance back at her over his shoulder, finding her arrested in some thought, her lips pursed with it.

She came alone - beyond that beast of a mabari. Shocked, his brows draw down sharply with concern. For a moment, he fears that _she_ has come to kill him, knowing him now for the abomination he is.

She crosses toward him and all he can focus on is how quiet she is against the floorboards that constantly creak under his weight. It worries him when the realization that she could sneak in unhindered sinks in. He's not sure what to expect from her, her face as heavily veiled as it'd been in the Chantry. It isn't until she grows nearer that he understands it isn't impassivity but her way of hiding exactly what is going on in that head of hers. She won't meet his eyes; instead she drops them down to his hand, still held firmly against the wall.

He startles when her cool touch falls on his hand and he jerks back from her, dropping it down to his side.

Finally, she meets his gaze, staring up at him from beneath that dark fringe. A sudden desire to swipe the hair back from her face so he can actually stare into those clear gems astounds him. He huffs under his breath, sliding his eyes away from hers. Her nimble fingers encircle his hand once more and she lifts it. His uncurl of their own will and his hand now lays flat against hers. She gently grazes next to his split flesh and a chill ripples under his skin. Such a small gesture, yet his heart suddenly takes off from it, like a startled bird.

"Broken," she murmurs so slightly, her breath pooling against the mess of his knuckles.

He nods, his mouth suddenly dry and he turns to gaze down on her. She barely comes up past his chest; he doesn't remember her being this small. In the trees, she'd been as large as life, saving him from the templars. Standing here, in his clinic, just the two of them, he's taken aback by it. How could he ever have thought her to be a man? The garments she dons are enough to confuse someone, but watching her now, he can almost make out a slight swell of breast and hip.

It takes the smallest pulse of magic; the veil hardly thins from it. Healing has always been natural to him. She watches animatedly as the skin seals and the bone reforms and after, she drags her thumb across his knuckles, smearing the blood away to inspect the wounds.

"This always astonishes me," she whispers, her chin lifting until she's staring up at him. "Bethany used to be able to do this without a second thought."

His lungs contract, his air forced out simply from a look.

It takes the presence of his spirit to break the hold she has on him. And the moment Justice's voice rises in his head, he withdraws his hand and lowers it back down to his side while stepping away from her. "What do you want?" he asks again.

She slips back into that silence and when his eyes drop to her, it's to find her own gaze centered on his desk. His manifesto lies out and for a moment, he's tempted to flip the book shut, but her sigh comes first and she shifts away from him. "We should talk."

That's all she says and as calmly as though they are discussing the weather. His laugh is abrupt and he turns, dragging his now healed hand through his hair, tugging it from the tie. Stray hairs fall about his face but he ignores them. "Is this where you start spouting the Chant of Light at me?" he demands.

"Don't know the Chant, sorry to disappoint," she chuckles, though not with her usual gusto.

"That's _not _what I meant," he grumbles, his hand falling flat against the desk. His back is to her but even so he can feel the burn of her stare, his skin flushing under her attentions. One kiss, well two now, is that all it takes? He can feel her in his clinic, a force of her own, and like a maelstrom she draws him closer until he feels like he may just burn if he doesn't touch her.

_It is more than just the physical,_ Justice breezes through his mind. _You have grown attached to this woman through the stories_. Anders barely represses the snort. How far he has fallen if a spirit is scolding him over matters of the heart. _This is folly. Our attentions must be for the mages. You must make this woman leave you in peace._ Peace, Anders does snort this time. He doesn't know this word.

Her steps are audible this time and he listens as she slowly circles the expanse of his clinic.

"I could try," she murmurs and there's certainly a wisp of humor clinging to her voice now. "Let's see-" she clears her throat and before he can stop her, she plunges into a chant. "Magic exists to enslave man-"

He jerks and spins, nearly tripping over his feet. Surely he heard her wrong.

"-and to rule over them. Corrupt and sinful are they," she peeks over her shoulder, waggling her eyebrows at him., "who have been granted this gift."

_Corrupt _and _sinful? _And why did it sound so... dirty. A woman after his own heart, it seems, or at least the one he used to possess. It surprises him when a low, weary laugh spills from his lips. He can't remember the last time he's done so.

"'Blessed are they who stand before these corrupt and wicked, wicked mages and do not waver, though they may tempt even the most just by dropping trou and proffering panties-'"

"Hawke," he laughs openly. "You're saying the chants wrong."

"Am I?" she questions with wide, innocent eyes that only encourage further shaking of his shoulders. "Because I clearly remember there being a mentioning of panties... now, how did it go?" Before Anders could reply, she continued. "Ah, yes! 'They shall be rather pink in color-'"

"Pink?"

"'- and have a faint fragrance of springtime daisies, as the frilly scraps of cloth are draped across the heads of those standing before the mages.'"

"I don't think the sisters will approve of this version," he groans, his hand pressed firmly against his brow. Never has he heard someone butcher the Chant so eagerly. Yet, all he can think of as he listens, is wishing the Senior Enchanter's were here to listen.

Another quick glance, her lips tugging upward. "Well, it won't matter anyways, because the Maker likes my version. Told me so himself," she states matter-of-factly. "Now, where were we? Ah, with passion'd breath, do _I _creep into the shadows of the night, to lie with you in sleep..."

He chokes on his air, his hand covering his mouth as he laughs. "Stop, stop, please..." That one didn't even make any sense.

"You should laugh more often," she murmurs gently and he stills, his gaze shifting back to her. For a moment, he isn't sure if he heard her correctly and he isn't given the opportunity to find out. "So, now that the awkward anger bits are done, let's discuss all that happened tonight."

He expected this, really he did. Yet, he loathes the thought of discussing Justice with anyone.

"I know a fair bit about magic," she continues. "And I'd wager you're an abomination."

His jaw sets, fingers tightening at his side. Her words wash away the humor and laughter. The anger rises once more and from it, he feels Justice rise to the surface. _No_, Anders forces himself to swallow, pushing the spirit back. She's seen enough of him tonight. At the very least, he should explain.

"Justice is a spirit, not a demon," he sighs, dropping into his low chair and resting his head in his palms.

He feels the weight of her stare. "Alright... let's assume I exaggerated my knowledge in the ways of magic. Either that or Bethany and my father kept more from me than they let on."

A watery chuckle spills into his hands. It feels like an eternity has passed since someone has made him laugh like this. Since escaping the tower over a year and a half ago, it's always been about running. There'd always been beds that he ran _to_, but not a single one ever made him feel this light headed from laughing. "Justice is a benevolent creature of the fade; a spirit. Demons are malevolent. They want, they crave, and they corrupt to achieve it."

"And spirits don't?"

"Spirits have no desire to leave their realm. Demons desire nothing else. They embody all the foul aspects of mankind. And they see no problem with taking whatever they want. Justice I met in the fade, back in The Blackmarsh in Ferelden. He'd been assisting a wayward people who had been trapped under the spell of a blood mage. When we succeeded in freeing them, the mage somehow cast Justice out of the fade as well, trapping him in the body of a recently deceased comrade we'd been searching for." He catches sight of her wince and it strengthens him enough to straighten completely in the chair before settling back. "Justice does not age; he is an ideal, he embodied all that word suggests."

She lowers down onto a cot next to him. The one she'd woken from just that morning in fact. "Past tense, that's never good."

He nods sadly, a long breath escaping his lips. "I thought a willing host, one that lives and breathes, had to be better than that rotting corpse. We couldn't simply return him to the fade, we didn't know how and we didn't know what would become of him if we tried. He is my friend, I couldn't just send him into oblivion. I offered to take him into me. The merge had been successful."

He watches as she braced her chin on her hand, eyes wide, riveted to her seat it seems. She blinks those lashes at him and he chuckles again. "But...?"

He nods. "I have too much anger in me. Things that upset me before - the injustices dealt upon the mages, for example - enrage me now. When that happens, he comes out. And when he does, he's no longer my friend Justice. He's Vengeance."

"So that glowy blue bit, rippling with power," she skirts forward and winks, baiting him, "and other... ripply things, was Justice?"

_Ripply things_? He casts a sweeping look down his length. He ripples? And why is he blushing? Surely that hadn't been intended as a compliment...

Though, from the strange spark to her gaze, maybe...

No. No. It's as Justice said. He's grown attached to a story, a person heard spoken about through her brother's lips. It would be folly, as Justice said, to even labor on the possibility of... No. He'd only hurt her and that's something he refuses to allow.

She rises from the chair, returning to her slow pace around his clinic. "Though stung with a hundred arrows, though suffering from ailments both great and small, his heart was strong, and he lived on..." she murmurs, pausing only at the end of her words to turn back to him.

His lips gape and he finds himself struck speechless for once. Never has anyone used a Chant in reference to him. And the passage she's chosen...

"You... don't think me a fool for willingly taking a spirit into myself?" he questions under his breath, watching as her feet pause in their march. He rises from his chair and slowly crosses toward her.

When she turns, he falls into those endless depths, lost among them. "Fool?" she asks. "Most definitely. But we've all done something in our lives worthy of that sentiment. One might call me a fool for willingly aiding an apostate mage escape the templars."

He coughs into his hand, smiling though from behind the cover. That word he wouldn't apply to her actions that day. Far from it, in fact.

"But you did what you did in the service of a friend. We never know the results of our actions. We can only make them with a true heart and hope we aren't led astray."

He doesn't know what to say. He's never spoken about Justice to anyone for fear of how they'd react. It only takes one mention of it to the templars and his life would be forfeit. Yet, here this woman stands, with an honest smile claiming her rosy lips as she gazes up at him. The dim light of his clinic softens her face and accentuates the faint layer of freckles dusted over her nose. So beautiful, more so now than all those years ago, now that he's been given a moment of time with her.

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice chasing along the walls of his - for once - empty clinic.

She blinks, a blank look shifting her features. "For what?"

"For understanding. For not naming me maleficar, screaming that I'm a monster, and running to find the templars."

It's the softest graze against his hand and his eyes drop to find her fingers twining through his. Suddenly he's forgotten how to breathe, his chest growing tighter and tighter as he struggles with his air.

"You're not a monster, Anders. Probably the furthest from it in this room. Now, come to the Hanged Man and have some drinks with us."

It takes a moment for his lungs to start working again and to process her words. _The furthest from it in this room_? What in the Maker's name did that mean? But before he can even think to ask, she and that pup of hers have vanished from sight. At first he doesn't mean to follow, but knowing all that can be found in Darktown - criminals, walking dead, thieves, he knows he can't just let her walk through the plagued streets herself.

-.-

The very last thing he expected to find upon entering the Hanged Man is Hawke hovering in the middle of the tavern with large meaty hands clutching at her arms. The tense landscape of her shoulders speaks volumes above the quiet murmur of her voice. Her companions are nowhere to be found, and all around her people simply stare.

Anders doesn't stop to think. He simply descends upon them, his staff shifting into the silvery light of the fade as he draws on the strength of the veil. He slams the butt of his staff down into the ground. The magic pulses from his feet in a solid wave. Both Hawke and the man accosting her rear back. At the last moment, a ball of forest green slams back into his chest and he rights her, his narrowed gaze falling on the drunken lump of stained armor collapsed in a pile on the floor.

"It's okay," Hawke murmurs. "I know him."

There's a groan that lifts from the heap. It's a mess of blonde hair that struggles up, knotted and tangled righty together. A heavy scraggly beard darkens the jaw but Anders knows the armor he dons. The griffon is evidence enough, and suddenly he regrets coming to the Hanged Man.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: **Edited Sept 17, 2012 to match up with Of Flame and Blade**_

* * *

Chapter 9

Hawke

* * *

The air is heavy, lying upon her skin in a dense layer so thick, it saturates her clothes. It seeps into her lungs, filling them with a wetness that she can hear when she breathes. She'd requested a couple pots of hot water once seeing the state the this man, but she hadn't expected them to deliver them scalding. Hand furiously pink, burned from the heat, she dips it back into the torrid depths, soaking the rags they'd also brought. Laying the cloth against his face, streaks of filth run down the length of his cheek, quickly vanishing with a little soap and water, as though the dirt had never existed. It doesn't take long for her to find the man beneath the refuse and with every line gently cleaned, she recalls a memory of him. They might not have traveled together for very long, but the stretch of days had been enough. Alistair had been like no man she'd ever met - kind, warm, caring. He'd left an imprint on her mind, a friendship that she's missed on more than one occasion while surrounded by thieves and mercenaries.

Across from the bed rests a mangled armor set, rusted in some areas, and splintered in others. It had taken a great deal of effort to remove the dented steel folds, but eventually she and Fenris had freed the poor sod. While she continues in her task, her gaze traces the griffon emblazoned on the breastplate. That small figure still shines brightly, as though nothing can ever blacken it. The symbol of their Order, their pride. Her mind drifts to another time; one when she'd revered such warriors. Not that she doesn't now, but time ages all thoughts. Perhaps Carver still believes in such things - honor, glory - but Hawke knows the truth. Life is nothing more than surviving. She longs for those innocent days, when the army had been all she thought about. There'd been nothing more important than defending her country and home. Losing Bethany had been a bitter lesson. Carver had left them, to chase after wild dreams, and left Hawke as the remaining protector. Had he been there, might life be different now? Would Bethany still be alive? Clucking her tongue, Hawke drops her eyes back down to Alistair. It will not do for such thoughts to cloud her mind. She is beginning to sound like her mother and that's something she won't have. It's no one's fault but her own. She should have protected Bethany with her last breath. That she panicked and froze is no one's responsibility to shoulder but her own.

Alistair shifts beneath her ministrations, his lids fluttering, thought they remain closed. Dropping her gaze back down to the supine Warden, she watches as his jaw tightens, muscles leaping in a fine tremor. His fingers are next, clenching at his side, flexing quickly as though he's reaching for something, yet finding only empty air. A crease lines his face and he tosses his head to the side, his mouth thinning in displeasure. _A dream_, she realizes. Though, perhaps nightmare is more precise, if the subtle shifting against the bed is evident of anything. Soiled and entangled hair falls over his eyes, hiding him from sight. Face warm with compassion, she brushes the offending locks back from his face, wondering how short they will need to be cut. Matted and clumped, she doesn't even know if they _can_ be saved. Her own hair has always been cut short, to evade such issues. The helmet head had been reason enough, but the knots alone lumped against his head surely must be painful. Gently, she brushes her fingers across the length of his cheek, smearing a remaining streak of dirt. If ever she needs a reason to keep away from ale, Alistair's current state is enough; flat on his back, tossing as he fights off the ale induced nightmares.

It'd been obvious that he'd been under the influence the moment he descended upon her. Not a second had passed when she'd entered the tavern that this giant brute came whipping across the room, his slurred mumbles calling her name. It had taken little more than a breath to recognize him beneath the filth and grime. Alistair, companion Grey Warden to her brother. At first, shock had stolen her voice. The man she remembers had been bright and shiny, full of good intentions, kind and gentle. The one time they'd gotten drunk together, he'd barely been touched by the ale. How much has he consumed to fall into such a state? She shudders with the thought, horrified. And what possibly could have happened to push him to such an extreme? Not moments after Anders had stormed from the Hanged Man, Alistair had collapsed from drink. It had taken her and Fenris together to heave him up to Varric's room, his weight and sheer size an absolutely impossible task for just one. Halfway up the stairs, she'd dared a glance back to find the tavern in utter disarray; papers akimbo, door wide, and people cowering from the wake he'd left.

Even cornered by the templars, Anders hasn't moved so quickly in her presence before, as though being in the presence of another Warden offends him, even with Justice holding the reins. He'd swept down on them so quickly, a pulse of magic that tasted bitterly of anger swelling between them. A vaporous cloud had settled over her and Alistair, the fog jerking her feet out beneath her. When she'd finally managed her next breath, it'd been to find Anders' hands steadying her, his fingers iron locked around her arms, _holding_ her against his chest, his grip tight and possessive. Even now, her skin still sings with the memory of his touch. With her overtunic shifted to the side, he'd found bare skin. Heart in her throat, she'd dropped her head back against his chest and stolen a single glance up to find a hard set jaw coupled with smoking cobalt eyes. Her breath had vanished with the sight of his voided gaze staring down at her. She'd felt his magic all the way to her toes, drumming over her skin to the beat of her heart. Her knees had been quivering, and just as she thought they might give out, his hands steadied her, fingers going soft as they braced her. Struggling to calm her heart, his grip vanished and she'd staggered forward, a brisk and foul wind tearing through the tavern as he stormed out. She'd hoped to give chase, question his reaction, question _her_ reaction, but Alistair had chosen that moment to crumple. Her reaction had been amiss, her hands narrowly missing as he fell, the wretched stench of the fetid ale still clinging to him.

Thoughts returning to the beast of a man stretched out next to her, she returns to her task at hand. It's been just over a year since she last laid eyes upon this specific Warden. A lifetime ago, it feels like; fighting in the war, taking a barbed arrow to the chest, Cousland, Alistair, darkspawn... Bethany. It would appear the same could be said for him. His hair certainly hadn't been quite so long and she recalls it being much fairer - gold almost. Now it lays dark against his shoulders, coated in filth. Curving over him, her fingers trace the new lines etched into his face that she can't recall being there before. Almost a year and a half since their Ferelden days, but Alistair looks _years_ older. She drags her fingerpads down the ridge of his nose, noting a slight crook, as though it's been broken and healed without being set properly first. Hawke's hand tightens at her side, ensuring her pinky is hale and straight.

Her gaze meanders over to the small pile of rotted clothes lumped in the center of the room. Fenris had been the one to strip him down, Hawke's back to them the entire time. Friends they may be, they certainly aren't at a state where she can see him nude and not blush. For his own decency and privacy, she'd waited patiently for Fenris to cover him in fresh linens, though they aren't sized for him, before turning around. His smalls had positively reeked to high heaven - stained heavily with blood and Maker knows what else. After proffering a little gold to Fenris, she'd sent him out for appropriate fresh garments. No one should be made to wear such dregs. Her brow drops as she returns to wondering just what happened to him. Anders mentioned traveling with Cousland and Carver but never Alistair. Had he been transferred somewhere else after the Blight? And what could possibly bring him to Kirkwall? In a little over one year, can he truly have gone from proud Grey Warden to drunk? Though she'd only traveled with them for a short while, she'd been privy to the level of provisions they'd required. Her brother had always been gifted with a healthy appetite, but the Grey Warden's had been remarkable. So how much ale does it take for a Warden to reach this state? An answer she doesn't want nor need.

His sword, she'd laid next to the bed upon her and Fenris settling him down. The dagger she'd placed next to his flaccid hand, a comfort for when he woke. Her hands sweep down the length of his still muscled arm, fingers gathering his as she lifts it into her lap. More than one memory of touching this hand rises in her thoughts. They'd always been calloused, a common result of swordplay, but even then his nails had been tidy and trim. That isn't the case anymore, dirt culling beneath, soiling his skin until they are nearly black. She lowers his hand into the now warm water, watching as clouds of filth swirl in the bucket. His face and hands appear to be in the worst state - likely due to his armor, though he could do with a full bath.

Patting his hands dry, she hangs the rag off the rim of the bucket. Asleep as he is, she finds her gaze wandering, settling on the cold steel of his weapons. Slowly, her fingers lower down onto the burnished blade. It reacts instantly, the tempered iron infusing in a vision of light pouring from a thin webbing of veins worked into the metal. Her breath catches as she strokes the edge, longing to test her skills with such a fine dagger. It reminds her of Anders, so bright and full of power. It isn't only warmth that spreads over her fingers but an unrequited strength that tightens the muscles in her hand. Never has she seen such a thing before. Alistair certainly hadn't carried this weapon with him before. His knife had been rather plain. Her lips quirk with a memory, his _eating knife_ as she'd called it when he'd first drawn it so long ago in Lothering.

Hawke startles when his blade suddenly sparks into a lambent light, awakening next to the bed. A golden glow sweeps through the room, likely responding to the dagger. A set, it would seem. Her nose wrinkles as she leans forward on the mattress. Where are his shield and the Grey Warden issued sword he'd had when they'd first met? The entire sword is made of pale ivory, the pommel worked and bent into tame curves. Inlaid into the blade is an assortment of runes, some touched gently by the light, others inert as though simply waiting for the right moment to come to life. She's heard talk of such enchanted blades but never has laid eyes upon one and her fingers simply itch with the desire to stroke it. The two shine as a couple, teeming with power she's never touched. And here Alistair carries them together, yet... a drunk? Her fingers drop to the dagger, caressing the silken crimson leather wrapped tightly around the hilt, vaguely wondering how Alistair would take to a woman fondling his weapons should he suddenly wake. Bows have always been her weapon of choice, but for these two, she might make an exception.

Slanting forward, her lips shape silently the words of an intricate inscription: _In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice_. Shivering, she grazes the engraving. She's always known the Grey Warden's are severe in their conviction, but to see it so boldly etched into the steel... the words send a chill under her skin. Words that her brother likely lives by.

The bed beneath her shifts and an ironclad grip suddenly cinches tight around her neck. Hawke's gasp is snuffed from her lips as her airway folds inward, her breath unable to find a path through the constriction. A strangled gurgle spills from her lips, her eyes bulging as she chokes. Squirming with panic, her fingers claw at the bare hand clutching at her throat, nails digging into the flesh until it splits. But she's given no reprieve. There's no stifled breath, no startled gasp, the hand simply flexes until her throat feels like it might shatter. Unhinged, Hawke doesn't notice the dust motes swirling around her as she's launched backward, shoulders rammed into the wall, feet kicking in the air. Cast into shadow, her watering eyes flick up to find Alistair perched over her, his face screwed into a mask of pure fury. There's a haze to his eyes, a cloud hindering his sight. Clearly, he isn't all here in the moment, his amber eyes fogged with some barrier.

Resorting to her last option, Hawke does the only thing she can think of to free herself. She snaps her knee up sharply, driving it into that _special area_ where a man's legs join with a dull thump. The steely grip around her neck vanishes and then she's falling, knees driving down into the planked wooden floor as she gulps down not one but two choking breaths. Her throat absolutely burns, the imprint of his fingers forever seared into her flesh. She can feel them even now, constricting until her air is snuffed from her once more.

Body shuddering with a great cough, her shoulders round as she bows over, her brow touching down onto the chilled floor. Eyes squinched shut, her hands curve over the tender column of her throat, massaging out the kinks. So long it's been since anyone has tried to choke her, she hadn't missed it. A groan of pain calls her attention and her head lolls against the floor. When she can finally open her eyes again, Alistair is crouched over the bed, his head between his knees as he sucks in a choked gasp similar to hers.

"I was told you had a man up here," a sensual voice drifts through the room. Hawke's chin jerks toward the doorjamb to find the scantily clad pirate slanting against it, arms crossed just beneath her chest. The material of her top stretches across her massive expanse, threatening to split from the seams, but she knows Isabela does it purposely. "But damn, kitten, I never would have guessed you liked it rough."

Hawke's brows snap down, eyes narrowed as she shoots the pirate a nasty glare. Pushing up from the floor, she topples back against the wall, her hand fetching against it as she struggles to find her balance. Rising is out of the question and as much as she wants to check on Alistair, her body isn't complying. A knock to his nether region isn't quite the same as having the very life choked from her. Dropping back onto her haunches, she tips her head back until it rests against the wall, arms limp at her side.

From the bed, a golden gaze lifts, now free from whatever fog held it. "Marian," Alistair gasps, her name spilling from his lips as though it'd been only yesterday they'd last seen one another. "I-I'm sorry! I was dreaming, and when I woke, I thought you were someone else! I didn't know where I was... my armor, weapons-"

Waving a weak hand, she silences his apologies, hoping it's enough to quiet his rambles. No matter that she wants to tell him there's little harm done, she can't find her voice; her throat still blazing. Cupping it, she tries to clear it, wincing when a fresh rush of pain sweeps over her.

It doesn't go unnoticed and Alistair is on his knees before her a second later, his freshly cleaned fingers prying hers away from her neck. He takes her hand into his, eyes sweeping over her throat, his face darkening at whatever it is he sees.

"Marian," he whispers once more, clear eyes rising and pinning hers. "I saw you here a couple days ago, and I couldn't believe my eyes."

Only when his hand closes tightly around hers does she dare a glance up at him, her bowed mouth curving gently. "Ale will do that," she teases in a very gruff voice, recalling her own misadventures not two nights ago with Isabela.

Alistair's face crumples, his fingers relinquishing hold on hers to brush against her neck once more. "Well, it's no ice wine."

Slurred though his words might still be, Hawke can't help but laugh at the memories. It'd been her in this state once, bedridden with mussed hair in a rumpled state. "Stick with the good stuff," she whispers, her voice frayed around the edges.

A little of the flare Hawke's used to lights up his face, his eyes shining with joy at their usual teasing. "The people here," he groans as his head falls forward, the dark ropes brushing against his chin, "don't even know what ice wine is! I was horrified. They thought I wanted ice in my wine!"

"Blasphemy," Hawke jests, hoping to keep the mood light. Regardless of the burning in her throat, she grins at him, the tension in her shoulders leaking away when the old glow spreads over him. Whatever it is to have pushed him to this state, she's simply happy to help him.

"They expect me to drink this... swill they call ale," he laughs quietly. "I've had nug shit that tasted better than this."

Hawke bites down on her lower lip, her body quivering with the need to laugh. Only when his cheeks color does her chuckle break free of her caged lips. "Been eating nug shit have you?"

"After your mom's cooking, everything is nug shit," he winks before sinking back onto his heels and dragging a hand down his tired face.

Another figure rises up behind Isabela, his stern glance scoping the room with a grim line set into his lips. "What did I miss?" Fenris demands his rich timbre that still manages to send a ripple under her skin.

"Oh, nothing much," Isabela chuckles, clearly not concerned whatsoever about all that just happened. And why should she? The two kneel on the floor, face-to-face, mere inches apart, joking with one another as though they'd never been separated that year and a half. "I came to speak with Hawke about Funalis, just in time to catch the tail end of the show here. The Warden over there thought it'd be fun to choke the life from our fearless leader, who in return decided he's never to have any babies. A shame, with eyes like that."

A hooded glance searches Isabela's face, brows furrowed as he tries to process just what the pirate could be referring to. "What do children have to do with this?"

Isabela laughs, deep and throaty before turning. "Think about it, sweet thing. I'll come back later," she calls over her shoulder.

And through the veil of lingering pain, Hawke watches as she taps Fenris' _special area_ with a single knuckle. Hawke blinks back the stray tear or two, gawking at the pirate as she saunters toward the stairs, an extra sway to her hips. _Pirates..._

A furious blush steals away from the typical pallid color of Fenris' face and he drops his gaze, his lyrium markings blanching, if such a thing is even possible, all the while refusing to meet Hawke's stare. Surely, there isn't something going on between the warrior and the pirate? Such a combination seems... as unlikely as laughable.

"Hawke," Fenris growls before sliding through the door and perching his shoulder against the wall. She can see the silent dare burning in his eyes, taunting her to speak of what she just saw. A fervent rush of her heart beating in her chest, she opts to hold her tongue - likely the first time for such an occurrence.

"Hawke," a mumbled echo of her name reaches her ears and brings her back around to Alistair who watches her with such a mask of confusion sketched into his face. "They call you Hawke?"

Shrugging, she whips her hand through her hair, wincing when she swallows past the lump forming in her throat. "It's the name I went under for the Red Iron," she admits. "Many didn't find the name Marian threatening enough, nor my... small stature," she chuckles, her lips spreading when he joins her laughter. It's so easy to be in his presence, and she finds herself naturally slipping back into the person she'd been before the Blight. Marian, not Hawke. But sadly, here, Hawke is who she is. And she feels the links sliding in place, the chain fastening around her with each passing minute. "It is what it is," her voice is deeper when she says it, stronger almost, though still quite gruff and wounded.

"You'll always be Marian to me," Alistair murmurs softly, his gaze pinning hers to the spot.

"No, Alistair," she sighs, though she does long for those days. The easy way of being with him, simply sitting under the stars, talking the night away. She almost wishes for a time similar to that. But so much has happened since then, so much that changed who she is. She's no longer that naive young woman. "I haven't been Marian since Lothering."

His brow snaps down, a strangely befuddled look crossing his face, the ale likely still holding him hostage. "I don't -"

"Bethany's dead," the words spill from her lips, heated and dripping with pain. "I-I failed her, and mother. I wasn't vigilant enough. I let those... _monsters _take her from me."

"Marian -" he whispers, pain flickering across his face.

How she wants to take comfort in someone, finally let out the anguish she's suffered under since running from Lothering. But that's the old her - that's Marian. And now, she's Hawke; harder, stronger, faster. She'll never let anyone she loves be taken from her again.

"It's Hawke," she tells him. "That's who I am now."

He hesitates, his topaz eyes watching her ever so carefully. How she remembers that stare. There'd been a time, _once, _when she might have enjoyed entertaining the idea of being with him - kind and caring that he is. But that time is gone. Whatever small spark she _might_ have felt died with Bethany. That had been her old life. "If that's what you wish."

"It doesn't matter if it's what I wish, it's what it is," she states in a clear, calm voice, her face carved of stone as she watches him.

Grimacing, Alistair reaches for her and takes her hand once more, helping her rise to her feet, not that she needs it. "Are you all right?" he asks as he gestures to her neck, wide, bright eyes searching her face. "Honestly, I didn't mean-"

"I know," she brushes away his concern once more. "I think the better question is are you all right?"

A withered laugh spills from his lips and he collapses back down onto the mattress. "I don't rightly know. It's been a long time since I've woken like that." His eyes leap back up to hers. "Do you know a mage?" he murmurs. "We really should get that checked out." His fingers graze against the column of her throat and she gasps, jerking away from the sharp flare of pain.

The question goes unheeded, and she answers with one of her own, dying for answers. "Ali, what are you doing here?"

A flash of emotion behind his eyes, one she can't decipher until he grins and curves forward on the mattress. "Ali?"

Her cheeks flush with heat, lips tugging at the corners. "It just... slipped out. Sorry."

"Don't be," he murmurs, his fingers brushing against the back of her hand. "I like it."

Her blush burns brighter and she drops her gaze, slowly retracting her hand from his. She'd known in Lothering that Alistair had been interested in her, he hadn't been entirely secretive about it. And as much as she might have been intrigued then, now the image of Anders rises in her mind's eye. The remembered feel of her heart skipping a beat when he grazes against her, how her soul had shivered when they'd touched hands in his clinic earlier tonight, the feel of his lips against hers, regardless if it'd been a joke or not, she's still reeling from such a thing. Alistair is affectionate and kind-hearted, but there's nothing beyond friendship for her. Knowing she shouldn't encourage him, she shifts back on the bed, placing space between them.

"You... didn't answer the question," she murmurs, scratching at her brow. He averts his gaze, and her heart drops like a stone. Hoping she didn't hurt his feelings, she rushes forward. "Is there another blight? Are there more darkspawn?"

A desperate scoff darkens his lips, his eyes falling to his curled fingers, placed limply in his lap. "There are darkspawn everywhere. Even here I can feel them. But no, I... I left the Wardens."

Her brow quirks; a common theme here it seems. In almost as many days, she's come across two Grey Wardens that have abandoned the Order. And here she'd always been under the impression that to join them is permanent. Carver had certainly implied such a thing. Come to think of it, so had Alistair when he'd explained everything.

"I couldn't remain with an Order that would willingly-" his voice fractures, breaking into a faint whisper and he drops his shaking head down into his hands. "It-it doesn't matter. I shouldn't have left."

Hawke's hands slide beneath her rear, ensuring she doesn't reach for him. While it's obvious he could do with some comfort, she knows the gesture would be taken in the wrong context. "Can you go back?" she tries to ask softly, but comes out more like a croak.

"Can't," he admits to his palms. "Been exiled from Ferelden."

Hawke startles, her eyes widening before they slide over to Fenris, remembering he is still here. Silently, he holds up the wall across from them with Alistair's fresh garments still clutched in his arms. He watches with an uncaring air, clearly there to ensure no more violence arises between the two of them. Shaking her head, she turns back to Alistair, her heart aching at the sight of him stooped over on the bed, elbows perched within his knees, palms bracing his head.

"Why in the name of the Maker have you been _exiled_?"

A sour laugh curdles in his mouth. Another memory rises; another time when he'd been crippled under the weight of pain for the death of his comrades - Peter, Duncan, and all the other Grey Wardens. But certainly, that _can't_ be reason enough to be exiled.

"Do you remember the night we shared our deep dark secrets with each other?" he asks softly, the previous glow diminished entirely.

A stain colors Hawke's cheeks and with a wrinkled nose, she drops her eyes down to the threadbare sheets. How could she not? They'd confessed to each other that neither had ever been with another... romantically. She'd told him about her kiss with Anders, but beyond that, they'd both been inexperienced. Such a thing hasn't changed yet for Hawke, but she doubts Alistair is still the same innocent Chantry boy. A year is a long time, and he's a Grey Warden, something women would fawn over.

"Well - I hadn't shared my most personal," he whispers, flicking a glance up at her through the filthy strands of hair. "Cousland... found out that I am the bastard son of King Maric."

Hawke's fingers fly to her mouth before she can stop them, not knowing how to respond. King Maric the Savior had been beloved by all his people, and his son Cailan had been no less. Part of her wants to be injured by such an omission. To think she'd confessed her darkest secrets and thoughts to... the heir of the Ferelden throne. To royalty. Maker, but some of their conversations must have seemed so inane to him - her complaining about her responsibilities. She had a family to care for, he had an entire nation.

"I don't want the throne," he answers her unspoken question. "My entire life was a parade of nobles looking down their perfect noses at me, believing _them_ to be my betters simply because I am a bastard. Cousland was no better, the self-indulged prat. Then suddenly they want me to rise up as their king? An advantage, that's all Cousland saw it as."

The heat of his words lash against her skin, so angered and frustrated, brows drawn sharply together as he curses them. Not that she can blame him. Cousland is a prat, the worst she'd ever met. It'd been a miracle he hadn't woken up with her blade in his belly, but cold-blooded murder isn't something she's capable of.

"Then the bloody blighter went and recruited Loghain into the Order."

Even she gasps, thought it's quite rough from the state of her throat. Alistair dares a glance her way, nodding at the abhorred look twisting her face. Loghain had been the reason the army failed at Ostagar - or at least a good portion of it. The king, the Grey Wardens, all dead because the man had opted to retreat rather than defend his home and country.

"Aidan and Anora had already consented to wed; a Cousland and MacTir on the throne. The people couldn't have cared less who took it, so long as someone _did_. I encouraged it even though it destroyed a friend of mine, but I couldn't lead the country! Not with so many of them always watching, waiting for me to fail. But when I heard him speak those words... conscript the man responsible for so many deaths..." His hand fists in his lap, shaking from the tension. "Anora called for my death, and he belayed that at the last moment, managing to convince her to exile me instead."

Horrified though she may be, Hawke's hands lower back into her lap. "He saved your life." As he has done with many. Of the three sitting in the room at that moment, two owe him a life debt.

"He _condemned_ it," Alistair spits, his face screwing into an angry knot. Never has she seen him in such a state. "What am I to do now? I can't return home and I can't be a Grey Warden, not knowing _he_ is one of them."

"What of Carver?" Hawke almost fears to ask. She knows now he lives, but certainly he would never allow a friend of his to be fed to the dogs in such a manner. Surely he stood up for Alistair.

Alistair's face crumples. "I don't know what he thought of it all. I only saw him from a distance. I managed to stay until after the wedding. Carver was just getting back on his feet by then -"

"What?" Hawke demands, her eyes sharpening. "What do you mean, just getting back on his feet?"

Blinking, Alistair lifts his head. "What? I mean, he was healed-"

"Healed from what?" Hysteria rose in her throat, coating thickly on her tongue. Anders said Carver was fine, that they'd traveled together and had seen him not a month ago. That should be good enough for her, but Alistair's words offer more than what Anders did.

"From the archdemon," he says without hesitation. "From what I was able to gather from Sten before I left Ferelden, Carver struck the final blow and nearly died doing so."

Panic lines her stomach and her hands snatch out to his, little thought given to her previous decision not to lead him on. "Please, is he all right?"

Alistair's brow snaps down. "Yes, of course. Haven't you spoken with him?"

Shoulders rounding, she drops away from him. "No. No word has been sent to us since we left Ferelden. Months ago we learned that the Blight had been ended and that Cousland had been named consort to Queen Anora. Something about a 'Hero of Ferelden' slaying the archdemon-"

"That's Carver," Alistair tells her. "He was the one to kill it and was named Hero of Ferelden."

Her mouth parts, her empty stare mimicking the shock within. Her baby brother... the Hero of Ferelden? Why had no one told her? He'd always wanted to rise to something great and it seems he has.

"Um," she mumbles, her shocked gaze slanting over to her friend, the elf. He merely shrugs, turning a bored look back toward the door. It seems he cares little about this conversation, not that she can blame him. He doesn't know any of these people they speak about. "W-We are working toward funding an expedition into the Deep Roads," she continues, her words a bit stammered as she struggles to find them. Carver... the _Hero of Ferelden_. Her fingers twist and gather the sheets into her hands, all but shredding them as she thinks on all she's just learned. "I wouldn't look down on your help." At the last moment, she opts to keep quiet on Anders, not sure if he wants it widely known that he is a Warden. "You know the darkspawn better than any of us. And I loathe the idea of meeting them again. If you want... I can make a place for you-"

His head snaps up, those crystal eyes boring through hers. "You would have me at your side?"

A loaded question if she's ever heard one. Hawke nibbles on her lower lip, wondering how to invite his help without making it seem personal. "I would never turn down the help of a Grey Warden, or of a _friend. _Kirkwall is a desperate state and we're slowly making names for ourselves, working to make it a better place. We're a small group, but quite capable."

For a moment, a dark fog whips over his face but eventually he nods, his eyes clouding with some unknown thought. "You know, you and your brother are quite similar appearance wise, but complete opposites beyond that."

A faint smile curves her lips. "How so?"

Lips thinning with displeasure, he turns his gaze back to the rotting floor. "You care about other people. Carver didn't care about anyone other than those he thought important," is all he says.

Unsure of how to respond to that, Hawke just nods. He _is_ her brother, after all, though his selfishness is something that's plagued him his entire life. But this is the same man that abandoned their family for the chance at honor and glory, disbelieving that keeping Bethany safe from templars was important enough.

"And-" her voice breaks and she clears her throat with a wince. She may just have to visit Anders, her pulse leaping with the thought. "Did Carver not find _you_ important?" It had seemed as though the two were friends when they traveled together.

"In the beginning, perhaps," Alistair sighs. "But he got too caught up in his own drama to look around and see the world was falling apart."

Hawke's head crooks, a small frown knotting her face. "His own drama?" She couldn't imagine her brother having any drama. It'd only ever been the templars that brought them trouble.

The Warden sitting before her nods, wringing his hands through the sheets and shooting her curious glances. "Your brother... fell in love with the witch, the apostate mage we traveled with-"

"_Morrigan?!"_ Hawke shrieks, darting off the bed. With a gaping mouth, the blood rushes to her face in a swell of anger that robs her speechless. That... that _witch?_ After years of him griping about templars and protecting their sister, he's fallen in love with an apostate? And not just any, but that oddly clad mage with wolf eyes heavily lined in kohl? Cold and calculating is all she recalls of this woman. Distant, as well.

"That's the bitch," Alistair grumbles.

Wiping her face clean of the many emotions swirling within, she gestures to Fenris. Locking up her thoughts, she watches as the elf crosses the room and drops the garments down into Alistair's lap. Not only did he acquire new smalls, but new garments as well - an ivory tie-up gambeson decorated with Orlesian designs and dark breeches. She knows for sure that she hadn't given him enough gold for such a thing, but merchants very rarely argued with Fenris. He told them the price and gave them his _look_ until they consented.

"Your armor," she swallows, rubbing gently at her throat, "will need fixing or perhaps we'll have to acquire you a new set entirely." More gold down the drain, at this rate they will never get to the Deep Roads. But perhaps the armorer can lower the price a little, with Fenris' insistence of course.

"Thank you, Marian," Alistair murmurs, his eyes wrinkling when they drop to her neck once more. It's instinctive when her fingers tighten against the assaulted area, the ache flaring. "_Do_ you know a mage?" he repeats one of his original questions.

Her eyes slide from his and she nods. It seems she _will_ have to seek Anders out again, especially if another Grey Warden is to travel with them. Hopefully, he's in a better mood this time.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: **Edited Sept 17, 2012 to match Of Flame and Blade**_

* * *

Chapter 10

Anders

* * *

Ink smears across the page, blotting out the thoughts he'd put to parchment not moments after storming through his clinic doors. Stained fingerpads drum against his straight-boled desk, his thoughts a maelstrom. He can't _think_, and his muddled ruminations are _beyond _frustrating. Here he sits, rod-straight in his derelict chair, rotting beneath him as aptly as his state of mind, and it's _all_ Hawke's fault. Unfair or not, it's what he's decided. He would _like_ to think it's simply the presence of the Grey Warden that has him upset - has the Order sent another after him? To force him back into the ranks? He _won't_ go, that's for damned sure. But the Warden has little to do with what has his stomach all in knots, in fact, it'd hadn't even been the sight of that man, white-knuckled, clutching at Hawke like he owned her. Drunk or not, and he'd been _quite_ drunk - Anders could smell the ale on him the moment he descended on them; a common occurrence with Grey Wardens - he had no right to handle Hawke in such a way. And _that_ should be the _last_ thing on his mind. By the void! What does it matter if another man handles her? She's a grown woman, and _quite_ capable of taking care of herself, she's shown that on more than one occasion. No, it's the remembered feel of her silken skin, the divine scent of her skin, and the lush feel of her in his arms that has him frantic. Only two days in her company, and his mind is thrown. After three years, one would think he could rid himself of thoughts of her - and he'd thought he'd been on the way to doing so once he'd distracted himself with Justice. But here she comes, tearing through his life, like a brisk wind, ruffling every feather on his paldron.

He shouldn't have touched her, it's as simple as that, and a promise he makes to himself now. Touching makes it worse, clouds his mind with thoughts of how _else_ he'd like to touch her. That second kiss had all but destroyed him; given him a taste of something he longs for but cannot have. And that's not acceptable. They are here for a reason, they have their cause, a purpose. They must follow through with it. He is supposed to be distancing himself, retreating back into his clinic, burying himself in his word, and his patients, not saving her from people she likely didn't need saving from. Locked in the firm hold of that man, towering over her, there hadn't even been a thought in his mind - simply the need to free her and defend her. The pull to protect her had been staggering and sent him running into the shadows, back to his clinic where he'd _hoped_ to bury himself, but is failing miserably.

The words he's committed to parchment are gibberish. Such pride he's taken in his manifest and seeing the blotched vellum, his words scratched aimlessly, his thoughts unclear and neglected, angers him. A new experience for him, surely; a first time that his thoughts aren't centered and even.

Sighing, his chair creaks as he slants back in it, pushing the tome away with a single finger. It drags over the desk, scattering the dust motes into the damp air. Everything is such a mess. He'd come to Kirkwall with a purpose - not to get swept up with some woman.

_But she isn't just any woman_.

The memory of her kiss tightens his jaw, his teeth grinding shamelessly. She's the same woman he's been dreaming about for three years. Not that it matters.

_We came to help Karl._

As though he doesn't already know this. Yet another goal he's failed at. Karl is dead. So where does that leave him?

_We must help these mages_. The voice breathes through him as easily as his own._ These people deserve much more than this. Their lives are destroyed by the templars and the Chantry. I have seen these injustices as surely as you. We cannot simply sit by and allow these crimes to occur without repercussion_.

And Hawke?

_The woman is a distraction. She is not a mage and does not require our assistance_, Justice informs him.

Nodding, Anders slowly draws the tome back over, his eyes dropping down to the lines and lines of words. Justice is right, Anders knows he is. Hawke has her own life, with her own companions. That's the way this needs to be. It's for the best. She deserves so much better than he can offer her, and should he break her heart, something he doesn't doubt in the least, it would injure him as much as her. He should just forget her, let her find happiness with some dolt likely not worthy of her, and be done with it.

Of course, the Maker has His own plans and never plays fairly. Just as he resolves to leave her be, focus on his own tasks and goals, the door behind him creaks open. How he wishes it's a patient, but he knows from the soft footfalls that it's Hawke, her roguish nature taking hold. With a deep breath, he turns, and his heart drops into his stomach at the sight of her, meek-faced and cautious. Clearly, he's scared her, and it bothers him more than he likes. Eyes cast to the floor, she approaches him, fingers resting against her neck.

Settling into the chair, he focuses on Justice's voice to keep from being swept away by her again. _No_, that burnished skin is not tempting, nor those rose-tipped lips. _Be calm_, his own voice roars through his head. But his words betray him. "Sorry about back there," he mumbles. _Why am I doing this?_ He doesn't need to apologize, he'd done nothing wrong.

Those sinful lips tug into a gentle smile and her head lifts. Sky-eyed, he feels as though he can touch the Fade through her - until his gaze lands on the empurpled expanse of her neck. A string of curses spill from his mouth as he shoves out of his chair and crosses the distance between them in quick steps, his pulse roaring in his ears. Dark bruises bloom over her throat, the distinct outline of fingers taking shape. Embarrassed, she drops her gaze, and he watches as she struggles to swallow without showing pain.

The hand at his side tightens one finger at a time until a shivering fist hovers at his side. All whispered objections wash away from his thoughts with the flood of bitter anger. "Who did this?" he demands in a dark voice, his skin flushing with the beryl glow of the fade. Power infuses him, sweeping under his skin. It's unclear why this offends him so. Different from taking an arrow or sword, it looks personal, as though someone attempted to snuff the very life from her in a fit of rage.

When he dares to touch the edge of the bruise, she shudders and his fingers retract, chagrin pulsing through him. The last thing he wants is to cause her physical pain.

"It was an accident," she states in a grating voices that heats his stomach.

He'd left her not a few hours ago, standing in the Hanged Man with a crumpled drunk Warden at her feet! There hadn't been anyone around that could have -

"The Warden?" he accuses, ire sparking the flames of anger into a near blaze. The image of Hawke, pressed into the wall, struggling for air, assaults him and he staggers back, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Wardens are a _dangerous_ lot. How easily she could have died, the knowledge weighing heavily on him. Very few survive outright attacks by a member of the Order. They are Grey Wardens for a reason - they've shown their skill and talent at fighting. Hawke is talented, far more than any he's ever met, but against a Warden even she would lose. There's a reason competitions are held - to pick the best.

"It really isn't a big deal," she shrugs, wincing at the savage croak of her voice.

Anders whips back around, restraining himself only at the last moment when he catches the tail end of her flinch. Too abrupt, and far too volatile, he suffers a deep breath and forces the tension out of his shoulders. Anger won't help the situation right now - what's done is done. Only when his pulse slows does he lift his hands and rest them on her shoulders first before gently grazing up her neck, fingers curving over the thin column.

Jeweled eyes lift and pin him in place. If he isn't mistaken, a light forms behind them, a heated glow that sends a shock of pleasure to his stomach. Her skin puckers, her breathing growing shallow. Anders holds her stare, silently wondering if her thoughts and emotions have strayed to the same place as his. Certainly her parted lips are a signal... but _no_, _no_. Such a foolish thought. No one sane would find him attractive - an apostate mage hiding from the Grey Wardens. They'd have to be insane to find such a notion even remotely appealing. The moment passes so quickly - _too quickly_ - and she blinks, severing their connection before she drops her gaze, her cheeks stained with color. _Curious_... he'd noticed the same behaviour after he'd kissed her in that tree all those years ago. Brave enough to take on templars, foolish enough to sneak into the Chantry to free a mage, strong enough to fight in the army and face off against a Grey Warden, yet... shy?

The silence between them thickens until eventually, her hand rises and cups over his, fingers kneading down on the bruises that offend him so. It's impossible to have forgotten that his hands lay on her creamy skin, and for a moment he dares to run his thumb along the line of her jaw, his head tilting as he studies her reaction in the form of a soft sigh. Such a sound should not be heard by him, only encouraging the unwanted thoughts. Yet, when she's in his presence he can't keep himself from her.

"Anders?" she questions, and his heart leaps at the sound of his name.

Shifting, he drops his attention down to their joined hands. The magic comes to him instantly and he guides it over her throat, eyes locked on the sight of her skin flush with_ his_ power. Never has he found healing someone to be so intimate and erotic. She grows so warm and his gaze falls to the sight of her head tipped back, lashes feathering against her cheeks, lips parted as a simple moan spills from her mouth.

Stomach tight, his fingers twitch against her neck, stretched before him. How easy it would be to simply drop over her and cover her bowed mouth with his. Would she _taste_ like his magic right now? The thought tightens his groin and he struggles against doing just that. After years, he thought he'd managed to lock that memory away. But then yesterday's stolen kiss, the feel of her hot, wet tongue drawing across his -

He shoves away from her, eyes screwed shut as he battles with his emotions - and the temptations - swelling within. He _can't_. Back then, he'd been a different man. What had it mattered to him whose bed he fell into? The endless stream of women had been a means to spend the time until the templars claimed him again. These women always knew he'd just been passing through. But Hawke... she'd been the one he'd never claimed, and the only one that he'd been able to taste for days. Every night he'd thought of her; the brush of her fingers against his arm, the savory taste of her mouth, the sweet scent of her breath when he'd broken away from her. A light kiss, that is what had started all this, but he can't let it happen again. Yesterday had been a mistake, as simple as that.

"Um," she murmurs in a soft healthy voice. "That Warden - his name is Alistair."

Stumbling over the name, Anders barely manages to right his feet before turning back to her with wide, unblinking eyes. "Alistair?" he repeats, recalling the mention of this Warden's name by Carver and Cousland. Aidan had been vehement about his hate for that particular Warden - it made Anders want to like him, but the state Hawke had come to him in is making it difficult. "As in Alistair Theirin, heir to the Ferelden throne?"

Carver had been sure to tell him all about Alistair, and Anders had always been curious why the lad looked so sad every time the conversation came up. Cousland named him traitor, accusing Alistair of sedition. Something about an attempted assassination - not that Anders ever believed a word out of the Warden Commander's mouth. A natural liar, that one. Married to the Queen he may be, but that didn't stop the countless numbers of women from flocking to his bed. Anders is no novice when it comes to bedding the fairer sex, but never had he lied to do so. If the ladies came to them, they'd always been willing and aware of exactly who he is. Carver had dared to tell Anders a little more, informing him of the sod's poor history. He'd mentioned Alistair and his sister are friends, but Anders hadn't given it much thought. At the time, he hadn't known Carver's sister was his dream woman.

She nods slowly, her gaze drifting back over her shoulder as though waiting for someone to cross through the doors. Anders' gaze follows hers, waiting for the illustrious Alistair Theirin to enter his clinic, but not a soul darkens the jamb. She turns back to him, her eyes flicking everywhere but him. It's then he realizes she isn't waiting on someone but rather, hoping to leave. A part of him wants the same thing - the part that Justice has a handle on. But the other half longs for her to stay. The sound of her voice lifting in his depressing clinic is nicer than he's willing to admit. But she also makes it feel more homey than the clinic it is. The thought of returning to his manuscript, waiting for the next patient to arrive seems tedious and... lonely.

"He traveled with my brother as well. I met him at Ostagar and journeyed with them to Lothering before coming here."

There's more in her eyes, he can see it, but he opts to leave it for now. He'd heard her words in the tavern when she claimed to know him, but he hadn't thought it would be _the_ Alistair. For a moment, he wonders if the averted stare and wrinkled nose are signs that there is something between the two of them. There's something in the recess of his memory, Carver's voice... Anders tries to draw on it, recalling a night spent in the Blackmarsh, Cousland wandering around searching for some mirror while ordering them to remain at camp. Carver had taken the opportunity to tell him more of what happened during the Blight. The words flood his mind with every recollection of the memory.

"_He'd told me once that he intended to find her after the Blight, offer her a life. I don't think Marian knows, it didn't seem as though she did. And it would have been foolish for him to ask then. None of us knew if we'd even survive the next day, let alone the entire Blight."_

Jealousy, as fierce as the angered fires that had blazed not moments ago, burn over him. He shouldn't feel such a way, if Marian wants to be with Alistair, he should let them be - though if he ever sees her come to his clinic with such bruises again... Yet, he can't turn the memory of her kiss from his mind.

_Forget it_, but he can't. His eyes sweep over her throat once more, though the bruises are gone. "And you and he..." he trails off, his hand aimlessly flicking through the air as he searches for the right way to ask this question.

With a cocked head, she watches him, blinking as he struggles with his words. "He and I?" she asks, hoping to draw the words from him.

Sighing, Anders shifts his weight onto his back leg. _Andraste's knickers_, _why am I torturing myself with this?_ "You and he are together?" he finally asks.

Her face fills with heat and she ducks her head once more. "Uh, no. He's just a friend."

Carver's word echo through his ears, chanting in an endless mantra: _offer her a life_. That is certainly something he could never do. So why bother? Why continue down this path?

"I told him he can assist us in the Deep Roads. He seemed to be grateful for that."

His feet still, her words driving the cold jealousy from his veins and replacing it with consternation. "The Deep Roads," he repeats, his voice barely more than a whisper. "What about the Deep Roads?" With such little time spent with her - _the best really_ - he hasn't heard anything about this.

Frowning, she runs her hands down her length. "Didn't you know? Everyone one else seems to. We're putting together an expedition. Varric's brother knows of an ancient thaig that he thinks will be our way out of Lowtown."

_And into that rather fancy estate of hers we just cleaned out of slavers._

Ignoring that, he focuses on this new tidbit of information. "You are _willingly_ entering the Deep Roads?" His voice is low and breathy, hiding the anger at such a notion. Only fool's step foot within those depths, most enjoy life too much to end it so eagerly. "You do know what's down there, don't you?"

A single bob of her head - that's all he gets. "Yes. But it's the only way to get my mother out of my uncle's hovel," she admits. "Besides, it should be remotely safe. The Blight has only just ended. Supposedly -"

"-It's safest during a Blight," he answers, repeating the common conjecture. Scoffing under his breath, he returns to pacing. "Hawke, the Blight is _over_. The darkspawn aren't overrunning the surface anymore, so where do you think they've gone? _Andraste's tits, _woman, think about what you're saying! They've returned to the Deep Roads - the darkness, and..." to the confining rubble always pressing in.

Her shiver sweeps through her whole body, her dark lashes fanning her cheeks when her eyes drift closed. "It's already been agreed upon," she whispers, though her voice is thick with fear and her lips a thin slash.

Very few react in such a fashion and with narrowed eyes, he watches as her arms wrap around her middle, her pulse leaping beneath her neck. The healer in him can feel her elevated heartbeat and fevered skin. She's faced darkspawn before, he knows that - from her days in the army, but she'd also mentioned they'd taken her sister from her too.

"Once I have enough gold to help fund it, we're leaving. Alistair said he would come -"

"So will I." The words leave his mouth before he's even thought them through. Stunned, he shifts his weight again, and stares across the room, meeting her shocked stare. Cursing silently, he heaves a sigh. He's offering such a thing because she _needs_ him, not because Alistair said he's going. But no matter how much he tries to convince himself of that, he knows better.

He'd sworn to himself he would never enter those blighted roads again. The things he saw down there - things that haunt his nightmares to this day. Foolish, that's what this is. She'll have her companions and the other Grey Warden - though the thought is a bitter one - she won't need him. Yet, the realization causes more pain than anything he's ever suffered.

"I'm a healer..." he stutters, convincing himself as well as her. "You'll need me." While it may be true, it's distressing to understand that reason isn't close enough to the real one. Sadly, still valid, however. When has he ever entered the Deep Roads without someone requiring some form of medical aid?

"Oh," she breathes, though... does she sound disappointed? His heart drops into his stomach. "All right, I appreciate that. I should let them all know." Her eyes dart up once more and he holds her gaze, scrambling to come up with something else for them to discuss. Finally, she shatters their connection and turns to leave.

He wants to call her back, take back his offer, convince her to stay above ground, anything to keep her safe. The Deep Roads are dangerous, littered with bones from those adventurous - and stupid enough - to wander the depths; exactly like she is doing. He should tell her the stories, regale her with all he's seen... _Maker_, tie her down until she submits to remaining up here... and maybe a few more things. But his words fall short on his lips, especially when the image of her tied down surfaces. The realization that this might give him time to simply be with her, talk to her about _anything_ feeds his dread _and_ excitement.

Shuddering, he turns back to his manifesto, wondering just how much more pain he can bring upon himself.

* * *

-**Hawke**-

* * *

Certainly, he sobered up quickly enough. And even cleaned himself as well. The armor that had looked like it'd been about to fall to pieces now looks entirely new, the griffon still shining sharply on the breastpiece. It seems Alistair has a little of his own gold and had set out for the armorer immediately, paying double to have it fixed quickly.

Buffed, polished, and gleaming, he shines like a silver beacon in the fading sunlight. The fair golden hair she remembers from lothering has returned - washed, cleaned, and cut as it is. Even his jaw is clean of stubble. All that remains is a thin layer of hair dusting his chin. Standing next to her is the Grey Warden that she'd first met those years ago.

Anders' question runs through her mind, asking if there is anything between them. She knows there isn't, but there are moments where she wonders if Alistair knows that. The hike up the mountains had been tiring, and every second step his hands had been there, guiding her over boulders and logs, though she didn't require it. He seems to have forgotten her penchant for the outdoors. The trees, rocks, and rivers have always been a second home to her. Isabela had been the one that needed assistance, her busty breast always getting in the way, the branches grabbing at dress - if it can be called such a thing - and pulling at her jewelry. Hawke had warned her the path would be treacherous, but the pirate thought visiting the Dalish would be _fun_.

Hawke had wanted this to be done by sunset, but the elf they'd just picked up seems to be taking forever to gather her things. And as they wait by the fire, struggling to ignore the furious glances of the Dalish, her mind strays to all they'd just witnessed.

It seems the necklace she'd been carrying had, in fact, been storing the Witch of the Wilds herself. Hawke had nearly toppled from the cliff the moment the woman poured out of depths in a vaporous mist before solidifying before her eyes. That time, Alistair's help had been appreciated, his quick reflexes yanking her back before she learned how quickly people died when falling off a mountain. Embarrassed, she'd tugged her overtunic straight and turned back to the Witch. Never has she misstepped, and the annoyance of such a thing burned her last nerve.

The spitting image of the woman that had helped them escape Ferelden took form. At first, Hawke had wanted to question just _how_ in the Maker the Witch had managed such a thing, to slip within the pendant and hide so easily. The second had been why. Neither question had been answered, and of course not. Witches rarely divulged their secrets - or so the stories went. They simply ate those that crossed their paths and carried on their merry way. Hawke and her companions are simple lucky the beast hadn't been hungry.

Apparently the Witch and Alistair know each other - the woman's leer a bit more than creepy. Alistair had been all but quivering with anger; clearly something had happened in Ferelden between these two but he hadn't wanted to speak of it. Even Flemeth held her tongue, something the woman isn't known for.

With coin pressed into her palm, Hawke and the rest of her party had all but been ejected from the summit. Nearly ten gold - apparently dragons don't require spending money. Alistair had urged them forward, begging them not to slow and to get as far away from this lump of rock as quickly as possible. For some reason, the witch Morrigan came to Hawke's mind and she followed Alistair's suggestions, pushing her party faster and faster before something catastrophic happened, like the mountain swallowing them whole.

Staring into the flickering flames, thoughts of Anders rose. She still can't believe his offer. For some reason, most of the time she got the feeling he doesn't like being around her. There's been a few times where the opposite came to mind, with his piercing stare and warm touch. Not wanting to take advantage of his offer for assistance, she chose not to invite him out to Sundermount today. Instead, she'd brought Fenris - who, shockingly, has not taken a shine to their newest companion - Alistair, Isabela, and Dread. Her mabari had all but piddled on the floor in his excitement for leaving the hovel to venture out. She isn't the only Hawke that enjoys the trees.

As with anything with male parts between their legs, Isabela _has_ taken interest in the poor Grey Warden. Though, admittedly, he evades her quite well; simply not standing where he last was when she nears him, or busying himself whenever she looks in his direction. Of course, this only seems to intrigue the pirate more. Apparently, Hawke's assumption that something might be going on between Fenris and Isabela had been wrong. She simply likes to tease and 'whore around' as Aveline puts it. It might be better if Alistair simply fell at her feet and bedded her like the rest of the men of Kirkwall if he truly desires to be alone. Isabela conquers and moves on. Nothing is ever lasting. But Hawke would _never_ suggest a thing, for fear of the puppy dog eyes that would find their way to her. She's almost sure Alistair would be injured by such a suggestion.

"So Hawke, Funalis..." Isabela begins, turning to her with a saucy grin that startles the Warden next to her.

Hawke glances at the woman, frowning heavily at her obvious pleasure. "What about it?"

"You do know that it's in one week, right?" the pirate grins, rubbing her hands together over the fire as though to ward off some chill that Hawke can't feel.

Honestly, Hawke had completely forgotten about it. In Ferelden, Funalis had been celebrated with pranks and shenanigans, all of which Carver had _loved_ tossing her into. Last year, Funalis had come and gone with little notice on her part. Without her siblings, there seemed little point in celebrating it. It'd been something they'd always done together. Those in Lothering would swap roles for the day and drink ale to their heart's content until they spilled into their beds at the end of the night utterly exhausted. One year, Hawke had been granted permission to switch with the mayor of the small town.

As though reading Hawke's mind, Isabela grins and leans back. "It isn't like Funalis in Ferelden," she tells her. "Kirkwall is much more Orlesian. And it shows in their celebrations. It's a chance for us to make some good coin as well. That is, so long as you trust me."

Hawke blanches. Why does this sound horrible already? _Orlesian_? That's never good. And how in the Maker's name could they make gold on a holiday? But she almost fears asking.

"I have the _perfect _dress picked out for you-"

Hawke sputters for air, her hands fisting into her overtunic as she listens. "_Dress?_" she squawks. "Isabela, I haven't worn a dress a day in my life!"

The pirate's eyes light up and she slides forward. "Oh, perfect. That just made this so much better."

Hawke shifts a glance to Alistair, pleading silently for his help, but there's a faint curve to his lips. "I think you'd look good in a dress," he comments in a low voice.

Of course, this only sets Isabela off even more. Hawke is lost to her sudden descriptions and exclamations, instead glaring up at the Grey Warden that just betrayed her. He laughs at the sodden scowl darkening her face, but it does nothing to encourage any help.

"It's just a dress," he tells her, tapping her nose with the tip of his finger. Growling under her breath, she threatens him with bodily harm, until lost to the sweeping glance of one Isabela as she silently measures her.

Hawke finally turns a beseeching glance to the elf. He watches them so closely, yet offers no words. When he meets her eyes, he simply lifts his shoulders in a lazy shrug. Even he knows there is no stopping Isabela when she latches onto something. Did she not just realize the same thing in regards to Alistair? She'd proffered the silent advice of just giving in to make her stop. Does the same not apply to her? If she fights, the pirate will simply dig those claws in deeper and make it so much worse. But from the descriptions she's spouting out, Hawke wonders if such a thing is possible. It isn't until Isabela states that her mother has already given the pirate Hawke's dress size that she chokes on her air again.

"You went to my _mother_?" she shrieks.

All around them, elves turn with shocked glances at the sound of her shrill voice. Even Alistair shunts away, his hands pressed to his ears in a mocking gesture with a large grin. Isabela doesn't see where she went wrong with this and she simply continues to regale her with horrid, wretched description of a gown so lewd that Hawke feels the ground crumbling beneath her.

"Isabela-"

"Do you want to make the money to get to the Deep Roads, or not?" she finally demands, her hip jutting to the side as she glares beautifully at Hawke. Those swart lips curl down in displeasure, honeyed eyes darkening to a liquid topaz. When Hawke remains quiet, a single thinly shaped brow arches high.

"We just made ten gold here today!" Hawke finally complains. "Why do we have to whore _me_ out for the rest?"

"Whore-" Isabela chokes on the word. "It's a dress, Hawke. It's a masquerade ball, every woman will be wearing one. So suck it up, kitten, because it's happening." The pirate releases the full strength of her stare, pinning Hawke to the spot who only nods, submitting to the woman's desires. "Trust me," Isabela offers in a gentler tone. "I know what I'm doing."

Hawke wants to do just that, but her gaze drops the length of Isabela's body, grimacing at the sight of her pantless lower half. The woman has no fear of clothing - or lack thereof. And that only spurns Hawke's fear. Though she can feel her nerves dancing around her stomach, she finally nods. Where's a shadow to vanish into when needed?

It's Isabela's amused curl of lips that makes Hawke's gut twist. "Perfect," she breathes, her hands falling to the smaller woman's shoulders. "He's going to just _love_ this." It's said so quietly that Hawke nearly misses it. But her chin jerks up, eyes narrowing.

"Who?" her question is repeated quickly by Alistair, his bright eyes narrowing on Isabela.

Isabela's lips part, likely about to brush away Hawke's question, when their newest companion comes skipping up to them, heavy bag slung over her shoulder. She nearly stumbles under the weight, but she's quite eager it seems.

Eyes wide and bright, she flicks a quick glance at them all. "I'm ready," she announces, practically dancing on the spot, in that Dalish accent of hers.

Hawke sighs and nods, resigning herself to her horrid fate. It feels like the void has opened beneath her and is trying to suck her in.

"It won't be so bad," Alistair offers a watery chuckle, his smile not as bright as she's accustomed to. Nibbling her lower lip, she casts the pirate a dark look, wondering just _who_ this person is she's plotting for.

A week… a week left to enjoy her leggings and jerkin before being forced into some monstrosity that _Isabela _thinks is appropriate. Maker, let the darkspawn take her now, before the Deep Roads, so she doesn't have to suffer through this.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Yay! Time for funalis! I'm so excited haha... I chose for this story to make Funalis more like Halloween and Satinalia sort of like Christmas/Yule. Obviously there is more to come! Also - I thought I would show you guys some of what I had in mind for their outfits. So here are some links, just interchange the [dot] with an actual period. And remove spaces.

Hawke: marketplace[dot]secondlife[dot]com/ p/ Gretas-Couture-Black-Masquerade-complete-/ 1334774

static[dot]lockerz[dot]com/ decalz/ medium/ image001326664154752ibc6wv[dot]jpg

Anders: medievalcollectibles[dot]com/ p-15321-ichabod-crane-vest[dot]aspx

stylehive[dot]com/ bookmark/ bordeaux-coat-gothic-renaissance-medieval-celtic-wiccan-fairy-and-new-age-womens-clothing-jewelry-gifts-amp-accessories-pyramid-collection-392368

t3[dot]gstatic[dot]com/ images?q=tbn: ANd9GcTOce9nL6l_7cRmm8y6VdcbclHTM_g4WjjtZVowkjb DEOMPXAjUylo53D5U2w

Hopefully all those links work! One was giving someone some trouble and they couldn't see it. Lemme know what you think!

* * *

Chapter 11

-**Hawke**-

* * *

"Oh, no, no, _no_," she whispers, horrified as she stares into the floor length gilded mirror. So little material, so little flesh hidden. Everything important is covered, but… she shakes her head, unfamiliar with the long length of hair brushing the lower swell of her back. She'd always kept the dark locks short, though her fringe tends to get in her eyes. But for tonight, Isabela convinced her to visit the Black Emporium. Very few people have been granted invitations to the mystical little shop. Even now, Hawke can't say where in Kirkwall they exactly are. Somewhere within the Undercity, or so the invitation informed them, while warning them of the diseased, insane, criminals, and even the dead. More than once Hawke has been dragged down into the underbelly of Kirkwall, choking on the foul miasma of blackdamp clogs. Even within the Emporium, the walls are slick with dampness, and coated with phosphorescent lichen that casts an eerily glow across the mirror she stares into.

The mirror itself is a cause for concern; a twisted device that somehow allows one to change their appearance at will. Isabela decided the length of hair and the moment the thought entered Hawke's mind, it snaked down her shoulders in long ropes. Though she stands before it in her normal jerkin and overtunic, it reflects the image of the dress Isabela has chosen for her to wear. Hawke feared the gown the first moment she laid eyes on it, but it seems there is no changing the pirate's mind. For the past few days, Hawke had herself convinced it wouldn't be half as bad as she's imagining, but staring into the reflection, it's so much worse. Very little of her torso is covered - the dress falling in two thin strips down her chest to a low scoop just beneath her navel. All that holds it in place are a series of thin golden chains. As for the back - there isn't one, just the loosely hanging chains to ensure this _gown_, if it can be called such a thing, doesn't slip from her narrow hips. At least the skirt is long, that much she can appreciate, as it drops to the floor in lush fabrics that almost shimmer as she moves.

Isabela stands behind her, humming under her breath as she twists and weaves the newly lengthened tresses, her lower lip vanishing into her mouth as she works silently. All the while, Hawke simply stands before the insidious mirror, grimacing with the slip of material when she shifts.

"Stop fidgeting," Isabela scolds. "You look absolutely stunning."

"I _look _like a whore," Hawke curses, the mirror reflecting the dark look sculpting her face.

"Ooh," Isabela snickers. "Do that again. It's perfect."

Hawke sighs and shifts once more, but the material always seems to float with her, never shifting from where it's been placed. She knows magic is a wondrous thing, but it's still cause for surprise. Even with the dress not actually being here with them at the moment.

"It's Funalis, kitten. _Everyone_ will look like this."

Hawke nearly scoffs at the outright lie. The pirate is usually much better with such things.

"Besides, _no one_ will mistake you for a man in this costume." She says this with such determination, Hawke can't help but wonder just what exactly she is referring to. It isn't the first time she's made such a comment. And to Hawke's frustration, she still hasn't figured out just _who_ Isabela keeps referring to.

"There is nothing wrong, whatsoever, with my gear," she grumbles, her slitted eyes returning to the reflection. The material clings so tightly and is so _red_, she's reminded of blood spilling down her front. She mutters something about this, commenting how it makes her skin even more pale than normal.

Isabela's head rears up, scowling as she stares into the reflection. Moments pass as multiple thoughts pass through the woman's eyes and finally she nods.

"Black," she states, her fingers returning to the mess of locks hanging down Hawke's back.

The moment that image surfaces in her mind, the dress changes in a swirl of light, fabrics as dark as her hair spilling down her length.

"Ah," the pirate hums gently under her breath. "Much better. Good call, Hawke."

Honestly, Hawke doesn't see a difference. But she shrugs, knowing Isabela won't give up. Hawke resigns herself to her fate, wondering if she can find some bandits to fight right beforehand. A slight tear or snag, perhaps? Something to call this entire night off.

"Isabela," she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Explain this to me again."

Her friend sighs and leans back, cocking a hip as she stares at Hawke's reflection, meeting her eyes through the thin plane of glass. "What's to explain? It's Funalis and there's going to be a ball in Hightown."

"But why all _this_," she almost whines.

"Oh please," Isabela laughs. "Have you not seen how Orlesian this city is? And in Orlais, it's all costumes and masks. Now, I've explained this. Every mask is made in pairs. You're going as the dragon," she winks. "I thought it was fitting for you. When you arrive, you find your match."

"And?" she questions, still horrified by all this. Why couldn't she just spend the night completing the random assortment of jobs they have left to handle before the expedition? Even drinking in the hanged man is more acceptable than this.

"And you spend the night dancing in the arms of your match," she sighs. Her eyes dart up and she winks at the reflection. "And then covered in whipping cream."

"_Isabela_," Hawke grumbles.

It's this part she mostly doesn't like. What if someone like Meeran ends up being her match? Or even worse, a noble. She knows her mother isn't going - why couldn't she just stay home with her and Dread, and maybe a good book? A night off. But even her mother is insisting she go, likely with secret hopes of marrying her off. Something about helping her settle down, so she stops tracking dragons and slaying giant spiders. More than once she's returned home covered in such things. And every time her mother grumbles about raising a proper lady; something she's never been.

"Now, stop distracting me. We need to figure out what to do with your hair and we only have two hours left."

"_Two hours_," Hawke whines.

Thank the Maker it passes much quicker than that. An hour later they stand before Xenon and Isabela hands over some coin, winking at the rotted remains of what once was a man when his urchin hands something over to the pirate. Hawke curves around her, much more comfortable now that she could feel her gear covering her once more, but Isabela slides it into her satchel before leading her out of the Emporium and up through the underbelly, to Lowtown.

"Go home and get changed," Isabela tells her. "And don't mess up your hair. I'll be by in a half hour once I'm changed."

Resigned, Hawke nods and stomps around the corner, climbing Gamlen's steps with a stony expression. She'd hardly looked in the mirror at the Emporium, but she can feel the heavy knot pressed against the nape of her neck. She'd felt Isabela sneak something into the strands and when she reaches up, she finds small little pearls intricately woven into the loose curls tied back into the knot.

She's assaulted by massive paws and slobbering breath the moment she tosses the door open. Quick words calm the mabari and she turns toward her mother, groaning at the beaming grin lighting up her face.

"Come, come," she murmurs, reaching for her last remaining child. "I've laid the dress out. Maker, did Isabela choose it?"

Hawke's chin bobs as she dejectedly trails behind her mother. It's like a giant conspiracy by them both. In fact, her eyes narrow with the thought, that's likely what this is.

Her mother locks the bedroom door behind them and turns Hawke in her hands, smiling as she carefully brushes back a loose strand from her jaw. "She chose well. This hairstyle is quite beautiful. Is it fake?"

Hawke's shakes her head. "We went to the Emporium, it's all mine. Magic, or something."

Her mother's eyes widen. "How long is it?"

She shrugs, dropping her hand down to the middle of her back, just above the brush of her rear.

"Will it stay after the night?"

She nods. "Until I return to the Emporium and put it back."

Her mother smiles gently, her soft fingers grazing over her daughter's cheek. "You should leave it. I imagine long hair will look quite fetching on you."

Hawke sighs. Fetching or not, they don't understand how annoying long hair can be beneath a helmet, always tangling in the metal, knotting from being bunched up while working. At least short, she can wake up, toss on the helmet and be done with it.

"Hurry," her mother finally says, reaching down for the scanty fabrics. "Remove your gear and wash quickly. A dress like this should not be worn over a filthy body."

Groaning, she slips from the room and locks herself in the next one over, reaching for the wash basin. So much primping for such a silly tradition. She knows all of Thedas celebrates Funalis, but in Lothering it had been feasts, drinking, and pranks. She enjoyed the annum there. But here, as Isabela says, it's all so Orlesian.

Her mother is knocking on the door before Hawke finishes. She mutters a quick word and continues scrubbing, grimacing at how quickly the water browns. At least her mother was right about one thing.

Tying her drying rags off around her, she slips back into her own room, grateful her uncle isn't present. Grinning, her mother holds up the dress and Hawke startles when she see's just how black it is. What _is_ that mirror?

The silken fabrics ghost down her length and she feels her mother's fingers righting the very thin chains pooling down her back. When she steps away, Hawke turns, watching as her mother's eyes bug.

"I feel naked," she whispers, suddenly very self conscious.

"But you _look_ beautiful."

Her cheeks burn with her mother's words. Never has she said anything of the like to her. The compliments are always a range from her marksmanship with her bow to her hunting abilities. Beauty had always been her sister.

There's a knock on the door and without pause, it swings open and Isabela enters. Hawke gapes at the sight of her.

"Pants," Hawke murmurs. It's the first time she's ever seen the pirate in such a thing. In fact, Isabela looks very much like a pirate. The leggings appear to be painted on, curving with the thick muscle of her thighs and her rounded rear. Slid overtop are a boot similar to her usual, only they end at her knee. But it's the top that catches Hawke eye. Similar to Hawke's dress, Isabela's blouse comes together at her middle, exposing a thin strip of flesh from neck to navel. The swell of her breasts fills out the blouse, yet exposes the curve of them all the same. She's even abandoned the scarf typically used to tie back her long locks and allowed them to flow free of their fetter.

She shrugs, grinning at the look on Hawke's face. "Always have to give them something to talk about. Just like you're going to do tonight."

Isabela descends on her and begins to apply a thin layer of dye to her lips before slathering a healthy amount of kohl around her eyes. The dye tastes strange, numbing her tongue slightly, and Hawke makes a mental note not to lick it throughout the night.

"One more thing and then we can leave," Isabela whispers, grinning as she leans back from Hawke.

She glares at Isabela's get up. Why is she the one that has to be on display? Isabela storms through Kirkwall on a daily basis pantless, yet tonight, she opts to be fully clothed while Hawke, who's never worn a dress a day in her left, is left with this monstrosity. Nothing is left to the imagination, every bit of her milky skin is exposed for everyone to see. The idea of all the eyes in Kirkwall following her every move twists her stomach.

"Tch," Isabela scolds her. "Stop scowling, you'll ruin the makeup."

"I'll be _wearing_ a _mask_," she mutters, taking flight from that one little thought. At least she'll be wearing a mask. The point of the night is not to know one another. She can take solace from that, at the very least.

Isabela clutches at her left hand and slides a dainty piece of metal over her third finger. Hawke drops her eye to it, wondering the point, when she clasps another metal band around her upper arm. The air in the room thickens and before Hawke can even gasp, a sudden burst of fire ignites against her arm.

"Fire!" she cries, ignorant to the fact that it hasn't burned her yet.

Isabela laughs, stepping back from Hawke and admiring. "It's supposed to be a fire, you dolt."

She slows her pulse and finally glances down at her arm, inspecting what her friend had just done. Spirals of flame course up and down her arm, running between the ring and armband like some sort of conduit.

"It's an illusion," Isabela laughs. "You're going as a dragon, there has to be fire somewhere. Other than in all the noble's pants, of course."

"Isabela," Hawke's mother groans before rounding her daughter. "Just perfect," she compliments them both.

The fire is almost cold to the touch, yet it continues to blaze up her arm without an end in sight. The mask is the last thing to slide in place. It touches the swell of her upper lip and sweeps over her face, extending above her brow and back in delicate horns. She knows from first seeing it that the mask is red and glitters with paint and jewels that must have taken forever to apply to it. But not once had she put it on to admire before tonight.

And as though following her thoughts, Isabela turns her toward the cracked mirror Gamlen had acquired when they first arrived.

Hawke's breath hitches. A stranger, she looks like, even to herself. The only thing familiar is the curve of her neck. With her newly lengthened hair swept back except for the stray strands hanging down by the mask, and the thin material of the dress, she does not look like Marian Hawke. From the sea of glitter and jewels taking the shape of a dragon, two jewels - like sapphires - pop out, the kohl only accentuating the crystal swirl to her eyes. The rouge added to her lips adds a swell to them, plump almost, as though begging to be kissed. This thought makes her uncomfortable and she turns away to find both her mother and Isabela beaming at their masterpiece.

"Come on," Isabela laughs as she slides her own mask - a bird, with an elongated beak, over her face. Feathers flutter as she spins around, catching a peek of her reflection in the mirror standing next to Hawke. "I can't _wait_ for all the men to see you."

Hawke groans but follows after her friend, careful not to catch the fabrics of her skirt as she moves.

* * *

-.-

-**Anders**-

* * *

In one hand he holds a somewhat thick tome, filled to the brim with theories on magic and spells the circle wouldn't dare teach. The other rakes down his face in an attempt to rub away the exhaustion. The clinic is quiet for once, likely due to Funalis. And Anders is looking forward to a little rest. He should _actually_ be doing that, instead of reading. But so few moments are presented to him where he can sit in silence and enjoy a good tome that he has to take it.

If only Hawke's companions could offer the same courtesy's. The door to his clinic is knocked open, noisily. He pushes the book away from him, the binding catching on the rough slivers of his desk, and he turns. For a moment he expects to see Hawke crossing the length of his room, silently, in a way no one else can. Her usual way of things. Needless to say, he's a bit surprised when he sees the dwarf crossing the room in strides that must be longer than his body entirely. In his arms, he staggers under a weight of parcels. Anders lurches to his feet and without any words between them, he takes the tower of packages and lowers them down onto his cot, watching as it shifts beneath the precarious weight.

"Varric," Anders murmurs, nodding toward the dwarf as he returns to his seat, kicking his feet up.

"Hey Blondie. Don't get too comfortable, I didn't come here to socialize."

He sighs, glancing past the dwarf, waiting for the moment Hawke comes breezing through the clinic, bow strung over her back, life and excitement swirling around her. Only no one else crosses those doors.

The dwarf doesn't even wait for Anders to acknowledge him, he just swoops down on the parcels and begins to tear them apart, laying fabrics and a strange potion out on his cot next to the discarded packaging.

"What's all this?" he murmurs, his boots clumping back down to the planked floor as he leans over in the chair. _A doublet?_

His fingers graze down the supple material, tracing the red trim of the black silk. It isn't only a doublet, but breeches as well, as black as night. An entire outfit, in fact, complete with a blood red shirt for under the doublet. Varric reaches into another box and pulls out a thigh length coat; black and red again, with gold sashes stitched down the breast - he's beginning to notice a theme. The inside of the coat appears to be lined in silk as well. But it's the final item Varric removes that catches his interest - a mask.

"I thought you were intelligent, Blondie," Varric snickers. "What does it look like?"

Anders sighs and pushes to his feet, shaking his head. "It looks like you're trying to get me into a costume to wear to the ball. But no, Varric."

Varric tsks him gently under his breath. "Now, I know you're not so rude as to deny a gift. I had to call in a few favors to find you this costume. You'll be the belle of the ball," he chuckles.

"Favor or not, I'm a mage, Varric. The people of Kirkwall certainly wouldn't appreciate the likes of me mingling with them as though I'm one of them."

Varric taps his chin, thinking over this argument. But then those sly eyes turn his way. "I wonder if that's why the mask is the pivotal part of the costume. Lighten up, Blondie. No one's going to know that beneath all this splendor and fine fabric is a mage, unless you're planning on walking around with fire lighting from your fingers."

"Fire?" Anders repeats.

"You're not normally this slow," he scoffs as he lifts the mask, allowing the dim light of his clinic to catch it before handing it over.

Sure enough, it's a mask of a dragon. His fingers fall against the smooth horns curling up from the top of the mask, grazing the jewels that encrust it. "This must have cost a fortune."

"Not a single copper," the dwarf grins. "As I said, I called in a favor. Now hurry up and get dressed. The party starts in an hour."

"Varric, listen, I appreciate this, I really do. But there are things I must attend to. And unfortunately, a ball is not at the top of my list."

The dwarf turns, his bushy brows climbing toward the ceiling. "You know, surprisingly, my number one item of the day wasn't waiting on a whiney mage." He winks to lighten the mood. "I'm not arguing with you. You need some fun. We're all going to the ball, so suit up."

"_All?_" Anders repeats. "Hawke will be there as well?"

The dwarf shakes his head, turning to the second pile of packages and tearing them open. "I'm sure she'll make an appearance. Why so interested?"

He shrugs, forcing his eyes down onto the cot where the heavy materials rest. "I just… can't see her attending a ball, either."

Another side-long glance. Anders feels a furious blush rise to his cheeks but he busies himself by reaching for the shirt and breeches first.

"Don't worry about Hawke," Varric tells him. "The point of the night is to meet _new_ people. See people you don't normally see. Your goal is to find your matching dragon."

Anders nods. He knows how Funalis works, through reading of course. The templars frowned on any celebrations within the tower. Those type of events tend to lead to copulation which is not entirely permitted. If he's to be honest, he's always found the masquerade balls of Orlais intriguing. And he has to admit, the garments _are_ rather fine.

"Off with that feathered disaster of a jacket," Varric tells him before removing what appears to be his costume from the second batch of boxes. "Slap on something nice, for once."

Anders shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it lovingly against his cot before stripping to the waist. Lowering into his chair, he unlaces his knee high boots and kicks them off. It seems the dwarf has even provided him with different ones - higher, as these ones reach to his thighs. He's never worn such high boots before. Untwisting his looped belt, he pops the tie to his breeches and shoves them down over his hips before reaching for the ones Varric's provided. He pulls the cotton twill pants up and fastens them before reaching for the boots. They slide over with little issue, the leather straps to the boots taking longer than the pants to cinch up. He pulls the simple blood red shirt over his head, leaving the ties at the neck loose. After watching a mage be hanged, he tends to dislike anything that close to his throat. The doublet is next, in a shock of black, startling against the red shirt. The line of golden buttons seems to take forever to close. But at least all that leaves is the coat.

He's about to shrug into it when the dwarf turns. His clothing is rather simple, though devoid of his typical jacket. But it's the mask he dons that gives Anders a chuckle - a hawk.

"Always wanted to be a Hawke," Varric teases. "Before you finish, there's something else I was told to give you."

"_Told_," Anders repeats, a single brow arching as he latches onto that one little word.

Varric shrugs and tosses a small vial to him. "Hurry up and drink it. Then we'll head to Fenris' to pick him up."

Anders groans at the thought of the Tevinter elf. Just how he wants to spend his night, being preached at for being an apostate. "What is it?" he asks, cautiously as he eyes the liquid sloshing within the vial.

"Trust me," Varric says with a vague wave of his hand, the beak of a hawk shifting over his face with his movements.

Resigned to his fate, Anders uncaps the vial and slams it back. He expects a bitter taste to assault his tongue, much like lyrium, but this one is sweet and coats his throat on the way down. He feels nothing, at all, simply the liquid as it makes its way into his stomach. But the dwarf appears pleased and hands him the jacket.

Anders shrugs it on and reaches for the mask, only to be stopped once more by the dwarf. Varric fishes in his pocket once more and pulls out a tube of something. He slaps it into Anders' hand and directs him over to the thin looking glass pinned to his wall. Lirene had insisted on it when she helped him move his things here, told him he needs to know what he's looking at. Since pinning it up, he hasn't looked in it once. He'd like to claim that's the reason he does the double take, but it isn't. His typical blond hair is now appallingly black - result of the vial, no doubt. His breath hitches at the foreign sight of him, he looks nothing like the man he's accustomed to seeing.

"It suits you," Varric chuckles. "Darken your eyes with this, put the mask on, and let's go."

_Kohl_, Anders realizes. Some of the mages liked to wear it at the tower whenever they could get their hands on it. He cracks the small canister open and darkens the skin around his eyes, covering it in the black paint until he can't see a speck of his flesh. Varric hands him the mask and he draws it down. The effect is immediate and Anders' breath catches once more. The length of his body is wrapped in fine materials, in a wash of red and black, a match to the glittering mask. And somewhere under all this is Anders, but even he can't find him. The kohl emphasizes the glow of his eyes, quite severely. He'd never realized how bright they can be.

"Perfect," the dwarf hums. "Unrecognizable without that perpetual indignant look to you. Let's go. They're likely all waiting."


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: **Edited Sept 18, 2012 to match Of Flame and Blade**_

* * *

Chapter 12

Anders

* * *

A wolf - that's what the elf chose as his costume. What humor Anders finds is one that neither Varric nor Fenris seem to share in. With a mutual shrug, the two lead him past the Hightown estates - his eyes lingering on the estate he'd helped clean the slavers from - and over to the giant courtyard where the banquet is to be held. Rows and rows of tables teeming with food and ale border the dance floor, already crowded with an entire city of people. For a moment, Anders is reminded of the tower, mages shuffling to fit into one common area. Only _these_ people are decked out in their finest garments that speak for their high status within society. Appreciation sweeps through his stomach for all the dwarf has done for him. In these silks and coverings, no one will mistake him for the apostate abomination running the clinic in Darktown - not that any of the people here would dare sully themselves by stepping foot in the rotted dregs of such a place, but the fear had been there either way.

A beautiful night as well - the crescent moon waning within the cloudless velvet sky, bands of soft, milky light bathing the sea of flagstone they all stand upon. The landscape had been chosen well, the masonry walls dusted with night-blooming flowers. And the fragrance... _Maker_, he hasn't smelled anything quite so intoxicating since that day he'd climbed a tree, saved from templars by an archer. Blinking, he slams the door shut on those thoughts and returns to the event at hand. It will not do well for him to think about Hawke in such a manner. He must hold to his promise, to keep his distance - he cannot let himself be carried away.

"Disperse, gentlemen," Varric chuckles. "I do believe we have our matches to find tonight."

"Perhaps you will find yourself a nice sparrow," Fenris teases in a deep voice.

"Nawh, I already have my match," the dwarf chortles, stroking Bianca's smooth lines. The two are inseparable. "My hawk is already taken, fell in love with a griffon as it is."

Shock snuffs out Anders' excitement and he turns toward Varric, his darkened gaze landing on the dwarf. He couldn't mean _Hawke_, could he? In love with a griffon? His eyes snap out to the crowd, searching for the one dressed as such, his heart thumping in his chest. For the best, absolutely, if she's found someone. Though, these thoughts do little to settle the sickness wrenching on his gut.

The dwarf had brought him here with the idea of wooing someone under the moonlight while spinning her in circles. Tempting, certainly, yet the image that takes shape is of him twirling Hawke - a disaster waiting to happen.

"Doubts for another night," Varric murmurs next to him, understanding exactly where Anders' thoughts have gone. "Tonight is meant to be fun, dance with someone you'll never see again, and return to your shady little clinic when the sun rises."

Truer words have never been spoken, yet reluctance drowns out Varric's words. For months, he's kept his nose to the vellum, plotting his manifesto, hoping to find a way to free all mages from the stagnate and abusive reign of the Chantry. A change in pace would be nice. What _would_ it hurt to dance the night away, beneath the glittering stars with another? Especially a specific someone with shortly cropped raven hair...

"Just go find your partner and let the night do the rest. And remember, Blondie, have fun."

_Fun..._ so long it's been since he can recall experiencing such a thing. Will he even recognize it, should it happen? Since escaping the tower the final time, he's been concerned with keeping free of the templars, then being conscripted into the Wardens, surviving the merge with Justice, escaping to Kirkwall, and now... surviving Hawke. All around him, he's surrounded by temptresses, the many beauties swirling in circles, their lithe steps enticing the many men twirling with them. Gems glitter in the moonlight, sconce light reflects off their masks, bubbling laughter, fragrant aromas, far too easy to be swept away by it all. Women giggle into their hands, hiding behind their fans they brought with them to increase intrigue.

Rounding the small staircase, his toes touch upon the smooth stone. Not a step toward the table and the entire courtyard falls into an eerie silence, turning to him with pique. Never have so many eyes fallen on him and he swallows thickly, trusting Varric to keep him hidden.

_They know who you are_.

Ridding himself of such a thought, he begs Justice to be silent for just one night. A silent argument but eventually the spirit acquiesces and retreats to the deeper dregs of his consciousness. Does he not deserve a taste of freedom? To spread his arms and fly free, for mere hours? To throw clean the fetters of responsibility and simply... be. They do _not_ know. Wintry dark hair flowing loosely around his shoulders, heavy, elegant folds draped down his length, a mask eclipsing his face... it isn't possible for someone to recognize him. The Healer of Darktown doesn't exist tonight - he is just Anders, footloose and fancy free, a well-dressed man entering a party, which is apparently cause enough for -

His head cocks. The next step had taken him down the stairs, but the gazes hadn't followed. Each and every pair of eyes are still looking at the stairs, _past_ him. Slowly, he turns -

- and his heart leaps into his throat. Andraste herself, descends the stairs, a goddess in her own right. Unable to swallow, or even breath, his clumsy feet carry him to the side of the courtyard, his jaw agape as he stares. The desperate thump of his heart pounds in his ears, drowning out the awed whispers sweeping through the party. Everything fades away until only two cobalt orbs remain. All he sees is _her_ - this magnificent creature paused at the top of the stairs, gazing down over the splendor, of which he could no longer care.

As lush as a wild rose, her obsidian petals stand out, the midnight folds of her dress swirling around her pointed feet, in slippers made of what appear to be crystal. A cinched waist and small breast, nothing is left to the imagination, the fabric framing what curves she has. Banded moonlight sweeps over her, burnishing her already dark skin into a deep bronze. Gaze drawn up by the glittering jewels of her dress, his chest hitches when he catches sight of a dragon mask. _Dear Maker_ - somehow He's found him fit to be _her_ partner. Surely, there's been a mistake.

So intently he stares, unaware of the courtyard full of nobles watching. It matters little, because _she_ is watching _him_ and suddenly it's only the two of them. Sapphire eyes, like the bluest of waters, burn through him. Oh, but he would know those jewels anywhere. His savior, his Hawke, stands before him, an image of perfect beauty. She shifts once she reaches the bottom of the stairs, and dips her chin, dark lashes severing their connection. Long, curling strands of raven hair slide over her bare shoulder, but regardless of length, he knows it's her. Nimble fingers press into her stomach and he watches, fascinated, as enchanted fires spiral up her arm, dancing over her skin. Anders can hardly think, let alone speak past the desiccate lump of tongue he nearly swallows.

Surely, a prank. For how else could Varric know to dress him as a dragon? It cannot simply be a coincidence, yet his mind strays to wondering how to thank the dwarf. Steadying his breath, he finally dares to cross the catwalk, his stomach a nest of nerves, wriggling deep within at the thought of speaking with her. This is the woman he's been dreaming about for three years, the woman he's _sworn_ to keep his distance from - for her own good as well as his - thrown together to spend the night in each other's arms. _Maker_.

She dares to lift her head, to watch him as he crosses toward her. Does she know him, as he does her? Were it not for her eyes, she might have gone unrecognized, but his dreams always feature them. Like him, they're heavily lined with kohl, but it's her lashes he watches as they fan against her cheeks. The moment she bites down on her lip, Anders _knows_ without a doubt, it's Hawke. The corners of her lips pull up into the tiniest smile, one that startles his heart into skipping a beat. Thank the Maker her mask doesn't hide them from view.

"Hello," he murmurs, his voice deeper than anything he's ever heard. He waits for the furrowed brow, or knowing glance, recognizing him - it doesn't come.

She dips her head once more, a soft greeting from those rouged lips. How has he never noticed how delectable her voice is? It's what he imagines a demon to sound like - sinfully liquid. Lost, he stands there, swaying with the faint breeze as he gazes on her; radiant and glowing in the faint blush of the moon. Varric's words come rushing back and he realizes the last thing he wants is to return to his clinic when the sun rises. Not unless she's there.

How he wants to speak her name, prove he knows who she is, but the secret is like rich butter on his tongue. She doesn't appear to know him, and his heart speeds forward with the realization. A night where he can be as he is meant to be - free of templars, free of responsibility, to dance the time away with the woman he - _what?_ He swallows the end of that sentence before it can be finished, refusing to admit such a thing, even to himself.

Afraid he may admit his name should he speak, he instead offers the crook of his arm and leads her out onto the dance floor. With his direction, she walks ahead of him, and he stumbles, balking at the sight of her bare back - the dress held together by the thinnest of gold chains, pooling against the gentle arch. _Maker, strike me down now._

Her skirt sweeps around her, dragging against the stone when she turns and he snaps his eyes back up to her face, ensuring his mouth is shut before he takes her into the circle of his arms. The searing press of her palm against his cuts to his soul and his chest tightens. The music seeps into his ears, now that he's listening for it, and he guides her into his embrace. Daring to meet her gaze once more, a small smile steals his mouth when her eyes drops. He can only imagine the color staining her cheeks - ever his Hawke.

The cue rises and he begins the dance - one he'd learned in Amaranthine, a requirement of the foolish gatherings Cousland held to inspire the people. With wide eyes, she matches his steps, allowing him to lead her fluently across the floor, twisting and turning where appropriate. She melds against him so perfectly, likely her dexterous ways taking charge. A woman that has spent her life training with bows and blades, and fighting in the army, he doubts she actually knows the steps to the Antivan Trot. A dip is coming up, and the moment his hand glides down the smooth length of her back, he groans. The chains are so loose, barely holding the dress up. How easy it would be to slip beneath the folds - _no. _

An elegant turn leads them around the courtyard, their feet gently winding around each other. With the change of beat, he draws her in, her back pressing flush against his chest. So perfectly she fits against him, and his arms wrap around her waist, much more intimate than before. Long strands of hair tickle his nose, far longer than Hawke has ever worn. No stranger to magic, he knows anything is possible. The curls fall to the middle of her back, sweeping over her skin. With his head dipped over her, his breath pools against the side of her neck and if he isn't mistaken, her skin puckers. Regardless that he's finding it more and more difficult to breath, he keeps them moving, their hips shifting as one, their bodies melded together. So close, a redolent fragrance teases him, the scent that is _so_ Hawke curling into his lungs.

The beat slows and she rounds in his arms, her head lifting until their gazes meet. Just like before, everything fades into the backdrop. His mouth burns with the desire to claim hers, his fingers itching with the want to have her. How can it be this way after three years? Passion burns through his every nerve, his body fevering with need. Would she grow angry if he stole one kiss? Could he stop at just one? Temptation quickens his pulse - no he could _never_ settle for just one. Should he taste her again, he knows he would fight to keep her forever, and that just can't be.

"So..." she murmurs in a soft voice. "Come here often?"

Such an odd question, Anders chuckles, and though it's breathy and uneven, he's surprised at how naturally it falls from his mouth. Hawke is the only one to ever make him truly laugh. Feeling brave, he teases her, his own dark hair weaving with hers. "I'm not the sort to mingle with nobles. I prefer the shadows."

Her eyes alight with challenge, a wry twist of her lips stealing his attention. "Too good for them, hey?"

"Most definitely. Do you not consider yourself a noble, my lady?" he jests. "I noticed you said 'them' instead of 'us'."

Apprehension flickers across her face. "And if I'm not?" she asks carefully. "Would that cause an issue?"

"I didn't see any notices posted on my way here," he jokes. "Far be it for me to say who should be allowed to attend a midnight ball such as this." He leans forward until their mouths are a fraction apart, shuddering when he draws in her sweet scent. "And seeing as any man here would die for the chance to dance with you, we'd be fools to cast you out."

Most women would simper at such a compliment, but Hawke's mouth simply crooks, her eyes burning blue, jewels from the heavens itself. "Is that a fact?"

Compliments hover on the tip of his tongue, the two positively wrapped up in each other, neither notice when a shadow sweeps over them. A heavy hand claps down on Anders' shoulder and only at the last moment does he tamp back the startling rush of magic pouring through his veins. Hoping not to show how alarmed he is, he slowly straightens to his full height and glances back. A knot twists his stomach at the sight of the Grey Warden from the Hanged Man standing behind them, gleaming under the starlight in his polished steel folds.

"May I cut in?"

This must be the illustrious Alistair Theirin. Animosity sweeps through Anders, his jaw grinding as he takes in the armor emblazoned with a griffon - _a griffon_. His head jerks up, gaze sweeping over the Warden's shoulder until it slams into Varric's. The dwarf had mentioned Hawke has fallen in love with a griffon. _This_ griffon? He'd thought Varric had been talking about a costume, but not a soul here sports anything griffon related. Carver's words breeze through his mind once more, reminding Anders that this man had intended to offer Hawke a life following the Blight. Had he done such a thing? Hawke had claimed they weren't together but much can happen in a week - had this brute of a man somehow managed to sweep her off her feet? And if he had, why isn't he the one dancing with her?

Gaze dropping back down to Hawke, it's only her surprised stare that helps him rein in his fury. Not a week ago, he'd told himself to let her go to Alistair, he could offer something Anders could never. But with her in his arms now, he knows such a thing isn't possible. Muscles leaping in his jaw, he draws her into his chest, but it's pleasant words that falsely spill from his lips. Allowing him to cut in is simpler than starting a brawl over her.

It takes far more strength than it should to release her hand from his and as he steps back with controlled violence, a voided pit sinks into his stomach. How she makes him feel, with little more than simply standing next to him, he doesn't want to let that go. Forcing his feet back, he heads for the wall, the entire time struggling against the well of rage bubbling to the surface.

* * *

Hawke

* * *

_Just breathe._

The idea of rounding the corner is far more terrifying than facing an entire horde of darkspawn. All those eyes, watching... her fingers fumble at her waist, grimacing when they meet skin. So much exposed. _Blighted _pirate.

And just where is Isabela? They'd left the hovel together for the woman to skip off down the street, calling back over her shoulder that she'll meet Hawke there - which means entering alone. Fear runs up her spine and settles thickly in her throat, her chest burning with such a thought. Jerkin, leggings, bows, daggers, these are the things she's accustomed to, the things she's hidden behind for most of her life. Dresses, adornments, jewels... she winces at the thought of such monstrosities. Her mother's delight had _not_ been contagious. The moment she steps out from behind the wall, the nobles will _know_ she is not one of them. Amell she is not - she is all Hawke.

Always one to face her fears, she blinks, her shoulders shifting with a great breath. With a final order for her heart to slow, she turns and steps out onto the staircase. A few steps she's taken when an unnatural silence falls over the compatriots; unnatural because nobles are never silent. Gossiping and plotting are their way of life - it's one of the reasons she doesn't want to actually move to Hightown. But she refuses to keep her mother in that putrid hovel, with her brother as her only company.

Fingers twining into the sides of her dress, she waits for the flinging of insults, naming her a Lowtown whore before tossing her cruelly from the ball. Instead, she's greeted with hushed whispers and soft laughter, rubbing against her skin like soft velvet. A few women duck behind their fans, their hands waving in an attempt to cool their flushed skin. As for the men, they stare, many grinning lewdly as though she's a meal, here to be devoured. _Oh_, how Isabela will pay for this. It's unnerving, more so than facing a high dragon - which actually _do _want to make a meal out of her.

Forcing out another breath, she steps down the stairs, the crystal slippers singing as they meet the flagstone, fingers lifting the hem of the dress so not to trip. Lucky her boots have a bit of a heel, otherwise these shoes might have introduced her face to the ground. Only when she reaches the bottom does she drop the folds with a sigh, forcing her feet still before she runs home and throws on her jerkin. Isabela and her mother would never accept such a thing, so she simply has to put on a brave mask and face what's coming. No different than a darkspawn horde - though at least when she faces them she gets to wear pants.

She scopes the courtyard, her eyes flitting over the many different nobles all watching her, until coming to a stop on a lone man leaning against a wall. He, too, watches her, as aptly as the rest, only the look to his eyes is completely different. Even though he's hidden behind a mask, there's no leer. Instead, wide, warm eyes peer out from behind the heavily encrusted jewels - her _partner_, she realizes with a quick breath. There's something about his intense stare that forces her eyes to drop, intent on the shimmering tips of her slippers. Where Isabela had even gotten these is beyond her, but they're ridiculously uncomfortable, pinching her toes together. At least her leather boots conform to her foot instead of the other way around.

Give her bandits, mercenaries, by the void, even darkspawn, and she can handle herself. But the moment it's simply a man, her words vanish in the wake of her nerves. More than once, she'd tucked tail and run from such a challenge. After Anders, Peter, and Alistair had been the only ones to penetrate that barrier. Bethany had loved to tease Hawke about such a thing, pestering her horribly about her shyness.

_What's so frightening about a man? Think of it like killing them... with your lips._

A smile claims Hawke's lips as her sister's remembered words drift through her mind. Bethany had certainly had a way with men, one that must have skipped a generation or two. The stories her father used to regale them with, how their mother had utterly bowled him over, and he'd never looked at another since. Certainly not a talent of hers. Now, give her a bow and a moving target and she'll take it down without a wasted breath.

Her partner moves toward her, his fine garments shifting with his steps, exposing a trim waist and the swell of his chest. A stylized mess of hair falls around the mask, as black as the tepid night. The edge of his mask rests on a firm mouth, lightly tinged pink, but soft and supple.

"Hello," he murmurs in a voice nearly as deep as Fenris. She'd hoped she might recognize him, even though she knows very few nobles, but unfortunately with the music swelling around them and the other voices mingling with his, she doesn't. A soft response is all she offers, nibbling on her lower lip, her tongue numbing the moment it touches the paint Isabela had coated them in.

Soulful amber eyes drop to her mouth - even they aren't distinguishable. Both Anders and Alistair have eyes like this, but neither has such dark hair. Touching her fingers to her stomach, she attempts to slow the flutter of imaginary wings, with the hope that her pulse will follow.

The crook of his arm juts out and she takes it without thinking, knowing this is expected of her. Allowing him to escort her onto the floor, she struggles to ignore the many peering eyes. Why can't they just let them be? That would be far too perfect though. The entire point of tonight is for the nobles to gather and whisper about those that dare show up. Fear jerks in her gut, the realization that someone might recognize her chilling her blood. It isn't the first time she's been in the presence of nobles, nor will it be the last. All she can hope is that Isabela hid her identity well enough.

Suddenly standing in the middle of the dance floor, Hawke sucks in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It's no different than engaging in combat. Follow where he steps, track his path, and respond - or at least that's what she tries to tell herself. The uprising music crashes over them and he launches them into the steps. Heat spreads over her hand, her arm puckering from his touch. Intrigued, Hawke's eyes fall on their entwined hands, noting how tightly he holds her.

Every few beats, his eyes stray to hers, his lips curling with pleasure as they dance together. Something about that grin spears her through the chest, her breath catching each time. More than once, she stumbles and has to scramble to catch up. He's quite fluent in her moves, his body bending and swaying to the soft music. For a moment, Hawke wonders how he would do in battle - both are a form of dancing, she's just less practised in this method.

Isabela certainly hadn't been lying when she stated how Orlesian this masquerade would be. Masks and sweeping gowns, spires of food heaping on tables, gallons of ale poured into goblets, laughing, chatter, dancing, music... And all around them, those that don't dance watch with interested eyes, as though measuring the skills of those brave enough to assert themselves before the entire city.

Something should be said, instead of dancing in silence. Anything to detract from the soft brushes of his fingers and the following strange tickle in the depths of her stomach. But what in the Maker's name could she say?

Before she can think of something, he guides her away from the long, lean lines of his body, her skirt flourishing with the small spin. The tempo picks up and he brings her in until she's pressed against his chest. _Flames_, she can feel his heart beating against her back and her breath catches at such a sensation. The light press of his arms fold around her waist, his hands hovering just over her stomach. Her lashes feather her cheeks as her lids close, her mouth parting. Such an intimate embrace, yet she doesn't pull away. There's something familiar about these arms, though she has no idea how she's come to that conclusion. Already shivering in his embrace, his hot breath pools against her throat, the perfumed air brushing her jaw.

The dance brings her around once more and she lifts her eyes until she meets his. Hardly a gap rests between them and for a moment she wonders if he's daring enough to claim that distance and kiss her - strange for someone she's only met. Bethany would have been proud to see Hawke in this moment, bravely gazing into another's eyes, silently begging to taste him. So closely he watches her, his eyes constantly falling to her mouth. Gulping down a full breath, she forces the tremble in her hand to slow, praying he doesn't notice.

"So, come here often?" the words fall from her lips without restraint. Groaning, her eyes close in silent reprimand. _Good job, Marian_.

A faint chuckle spills from his lips, one that she _does_ recognize but fails to place. He shifts forward, his long dark hair blending with hers. "I'm not the sort to mingle with nobles. I prefer the shadows."

_Shadows_, is that so? No one prefers them as much as she and her stray thought of picturing him in battle returns. Is he another rogue? He's certainly too lean to be a warrior. Alistair's build is much bulkier, teeming with muscles that this one hides. But that isn't all she notices - his accent is Ferelden. Intriguing. Very few of her compatriots have the gold to spend on an outfit as rich as his. Her mouth crooks before she asks, "Too good for them, hey?"

"Most definitely." He pauses, a light colored brow peeking above the rim of his mask. "Do you not consider yourself a noble, my lady?" She bristles inwardly at the sentiment. "I noticed you said 'them' instead of 'us'."

Heart in her throat, she tries to ignore the anxiety that skitters up her body. "And if I'm not?" she finally asks, wondering after his reaction. Is this where they'll start with the insults, believing themselves to be better than her? Perhaps they believe so, but she doesn't fear reminding them who they seek out when their problems become too much for them to handle. "Would that cause an issue?"

"I didn't see any notices posted on my way here," he jokes with a bright smile, one that knocks her breath out. "Far be it for me to say who should be allowed to attend a midnight ball such as this." He leans forward until their mouths are a breadth apart, her lips quivering at the intended closeness. An inch closer and she'll finally taste him, something she wants more and more as the seconds pass. "And seeing as any man here would die for the chance to dance with you, we'd be fools to cast you out."

Her mouth tilts again, the compliment washing over her. She's far too interested in who this man might be. Most of the Ferelden refugees she's helped in some fashion, but she'd like to think this one would stand out, with hair as dark as his and eyes as bright.

He draws in another breath, his intent to speak obvious, when a hand claps down on her shoulder. As one, they startle, breaking apart. Hawke hadn't realized just how close they'd been standing together, until the cool brisk air sweeps between them. Stunned, her eyes climb the silvered chest of another man, her gaze settling on the familiar face of Alistair.

"Mind if I cut in?" he asks gently.

The hand against her back twitches, his body an absolute line of tension. Oddly enough, his gaze jerks over Alistair's shoulder, seeking someone out that Hawke can't see due to Alistair's sheer size. It's obvious he's annoyed, the shameless grinding of his jaw catching her attention. But that isn't what has her shocked, for a moment she'd been sure she'd felt magic brush over her. Growing up with Bethany, she'd learned to feel such things. Only at the last moment had her partner seemed to gain control. Surely she is imagining things? What mage in his right mind would venture out to a masquerade ball, patrolled by city guards and templars alike?

Shoulders rigid, his eyes fall back to hers once more, and she blinks, surprised by his reaction. Not many would grow so agitated by another simply asking for a dance. Muscles leap under his skin as he draws her closer into his chest, his fingers gripping her tightly. Peering up at him, Hawke's mouth parts. From this angle, the long line of his jaw looks familiar. But before she can give it any thought, he releases her and backs away, those eyes watching her with every step he takes.

Left staring up at Alistair, in his silver griffon armor, Hawke's shoulders round and she steps into him with ease, taking his hands into her own. She's never danced with someone wearing gauntlets and the awkwardness brings a chuckle to her lips. Seeing as he's clad a Grey Warden, it's obvious it's Alistair, but she can't help but wonder if he knows who she is. Before a word is spoken, he leads her across the flagstone, his armor slightly more difficult to sway with compared to her partner's silken coverings.

"A dragon, hey?" he murmurs quietly, guiding her through some steps she doesn't know. A challenging grin twists her lips as she lifts her chin, waiting for him to figure it out. "You know, the last dragon I had the pleasure of meeting met the sharp end of my sword."

Chuckles spill from her lips before she can stop it, he always has a way of making her laugh. "Really? The last one I met swept me away to a foreign land filled with promises of a new life and riches."

His brow arches skyward. "Are you kidding? Must have been a much nicer dragon than mine. It simply wanted to eat me."

"Did you have your eating knife?" she teases, wondering if he'll figure it out.

His gaze drops to hers, but there's no glow settling into his face, no wry twist of his mouth. Mock seriousness peers out at her and she can't help but giggle again. "Unfortunately not, lent it to a friend and she wasn't kind enough to return it before leaving." A mock sigh shifts his shoulders. "Teach me to share my things."

"Maybe she had to sell it," Hawke teases, peering coyly up at him. His foot brushes against hers and he spins her in a such a fast circle, her dress lifts from the ground, billowing around into the air. After the second revolution, she's laughing too hard and clinging tightly to his arms to keep from falling. His own laugh rises with hers, his hands sliding under her elbows to guide her to a stop.

"So did your dragon provide you with said riches?" he asks breathlessly, fingers falling to her waist as they fall back into the steps.

Drawing her hands away from his chest, she runs her fingers through her long locks, drawing them face from her face. Hoping not to give herself away just yet, she veils her words. "No. It was all a lie. There was no new life or any riches waiting for me." Not entirely true. The Amell estate will certainly provide her with more than her Uncle can, but she doesn't mention that.

"What a jerky dragon," Alistair clucks under his breath, winking playfully when his mouth tips up. "Don't you hate it when they lie? Mine told me it was going to kill me."

Nodding gravely, a faux frown pulls on her mask. "How rude! It could have at least followed through with that! Mine at least let me fly on it for a little bit."

Steeled hands pull her hips flush against his, rolling them together in a strange sequence that leads them around the banquet. People all around dodge out of their way, allowing her and Alistair to take the lead. Admittedly, for a templar and Grey Warden, he certainly knows how to dance.

"Oh, I don't know," he comments softly, his voice lowering into a breathy imitation. "I'm rather happy mine lied." Topaz eyes dart to her face. "What about you, Marian? Are you happy your dragon brought you here?"

She startles, her brows vanishing into the thick fringe covering her brow. "You know it's me?"

With bright cheeks, he averts his gaze, a finger scratching at his nose before repositioning his hand in the small of her back. "Um, if you remember..." he clears his throat. "Cousland and your brother had to... disrobe you-" he chokes an uncomfortable laugh, still refusing to meet her eyes. "Then there was the night you... uh, passed out after drinking a little too much, I had to practically carry you-"

"You did _not!_" she gaps, the back of her hand slapping against his steel breastplate.

"Mm. I so did. And let me tell you, little lady, you're not as light as you think. Maker, where you keep all that weight..."

"Alistair!" she chokes, bursting into a fit of laughter. How quickly she falls quiet when her wide eyes snap back up to his. "Wait... are you saying that you recognized me because of how _naked_ I'd been?"

Steel gauntlets bury into his hair. "Did I say that? No, I meant... I just -"

She scoffs under her breath, all the more prepared to murder Isabela, friend or not. His chuckle is soft but he doesn't answer. The silence is telling enough in its own.

The music drifts away and Alistair spins her away from him, smiling warmly. "I suppose I should return you to your partner before I'm struck down for hogging the most beautiful woman here."

She ducks her head, but a slight tingle draws her attention back to where her partner stands, leaning darkly against the furthest wall. He shifts, face turning toward her. They share a look, one that robs her of breath. The entire time in Alistair's arms, she'd felt nothing but humor and fondness - nothing more, and she knows that such a thing injures him, but she can't help it.

For the first time, she feels brave and she starts toward her partner, about to drag the sinful man back onto the dance floor when another set of hands pulls at her.

"Hawke!" a muffled voice from behind a mask hisses her name before gripping her shoulders and spinning her around. Her breath releases in a wash at the sight of Isabela. "Come."

She steals a glance back to find her partner standing with a hand on the wall, watching - clearly as confused as she.

"Time to make some money!" Isabela laughs.

A line up has formed, for what Hawke has no idea. Men and women in a full range of size, clothed in sparkling costumes and glittering masks, all watching her.

"Twenty silver for a simple kiss," Isabela calls out and Hawke startles, veiled eyes shifting to glare at the pirate next to her. What... in the Maker is this woman talking about? "One gold for full contact! So step up, people of Ferelden! And come kiss the dragon!"

Her heart stops dead in her chest, her palms now slick with sweat. _Maker's breath_! Isabela wouldn't actually -

"Enjoy it, Queen Rogue," the woman laughs quickly in her ear before vanishing and leaving her standing before this long line of denizens with purses and pockets full of coin.

* * *

Anders

* * *

If he'd needed proof that it's Hawke, this is it. The sight of Isabela curving over her is enough. How he wishes he'd just left. The last thing he'd wanted to watch was that fool Alistair twirling her endlessly across the flagstone. Her laughter, _oh Maker_, the sound of it tinkling as it swept over the distance toward him, he's never heard such a thing before. _He's _certainly never made her laugh like that.

Sullen and disappointed, he slumps back against the wall, watching as the crowd begins to forms, teeming with excited to do exactly what that blighted pirate said; kiss the dragon. So entranced by that wretched gown, he doesn't realize when Alistair sidles up next to him, his shoulder holding up the wall until the man's oversized shadow sweeps over him. Granted, they're only an inch or two apart but the sheer width of the man is slightly intimidating.

"Does she know who you are?" Anders mutters under his breath, fighting against the urge to unleash his magic on him.

"Yup," Alistair nods. "Just like I know who you are."

Anders jaw tightens. "Do you now?"

"Oh yes. I know you're an abomination."

Anders' gaze swivels over to the dwarf, a tremor of tension running through his body. Varric talks to much, it's no wonder the templars haven't found him yet with the stories and rumors he insists on speaking.

Without answering, he turns his eyes back to Hawke, watching as she startles back, pushing away from Isabela, her head shaking aptly. His shoulders aren't the only tight ones - though hers are bare and seem to sing under the pale moonlight.

"I guess it's a good thing I know _all_ about you, then," Anders hisses under his breath, immediately choosing to dislike the other Warden. Had he not shown his feelings for Hawke, knowing he'd been trained as a templar would have been sufficient enough, but now Anders has two reasons to hate him.

Pushing off the wall, he leaves the other Warden in his wake and moves toward Hawke as though being drawn by a string. Perhaps Alistair can make her laugh, but Anders can make her melt, and that's by far more important than a little chuckle here and there. So exquisite in that gown, and that _hair_... He should leave, turn around and walk away right now. But there's a fueled rage within that demands he show this Alistair up. Call it testosterone, Anders doesn't care.

As he crosses toward her, he recalls the feel of her sliding against him, swaying to the liquid beat of the music as it swelled over the courtyard. The lean lines of her legs, thin expanse of her back, her flushed skin... all images he can't free himself of.

_It's Hawke_, a deep voice - his own, no less - thunders through him. Justice had sworn to keep his distance and he's doing just that. _Carver's sister. Turn around, right now, and go back to the clinic._

He never has been good at following orders - his own or the Chantry's.

Gripping her shoulders, he spins her around. An ocean rests in those eyes and they snap up to his, rouged lips parting in surprise. His fingers twitch with the desire to rip off that mask, to expose her slightly rounded cheeks and soft nose.

Swallowing _that_ temptation, he gives into another and curves over her, stealing her lips in a brusque kiss. For a second, she stiffens against him, her alarm palpable, but the moment his tongue parts those colored lips he's been watching all night, she does exactly as he expects, and melts into him, her fingers curling into the golden sash of his coat. His fingers press lightly into her back, holding her firmly against him. The gentle touch of her tongue sparks his pulse and his grip tightens.

The chime of a bell startles them both, the witching hour tolling through his head. Breaking from the kiss, his gaze snaps up and he watches as the tower sings its song of midnight.

_Go back to the clinic_, Justice awakens at the sound of the bong.

Ignoring the spirit within, Anders eyes drop back down to hers, his tongue running over the numb expanse of his lips, an interesting effect when kissing someone who sets his body aflame. The smooth length of her back slides under his fingers as he climbs it, grazing under the pooling chains, sliding them into her hair until he can cup her head.

Tilting her head, the cold tip of her nose brushes against his cheek. Muddled eyes find his, her lips a bit swollen from the heat of the kiss. He barely manages to swallow his groan at the sight of her half lidded gaze and parted mouth - but such a sound is not meant for public.

"Anders..." she whispers, those lashes fluttering open until her burning cobalt eyes find his.

Elation speeds his pulse that she knows him from but a kiss. "Marian," he murmurs back, using her given name for the first time since meeting her.

He kisses her again, slower this time, a tender movement of lips, and then his tongue finds hers again, deliberate, and sensual as they tangle slowly in her mouth. Amorous, delicious ecstasy awakes in him and his hands sweep around until he can cup the column of her throat, holding her so gently. He forgets everything about this night, that they are surrounded by the many nobles of Kirkwall, that he is an abomination and shouldn't punish himself in such a fashion, that he swore he would leave Hawke be. All he knows is the feel of her silky hair falling around him, the softness of her lips upon his, and the feel of her tucked into his chest, her fingers wrapped in the garments that cover him.

The bell chimes twelve and he wrenches away from Hawke, fingers digging at the bridge of his nose. Oh, but he can _still_ taste her, can still her feel her pressed against him and that won't do. He shouldn't have kissed her, not the first time or the second time, for now he's falling - falling with nothing left to catch him. What had been meant to be a simple night of fun, now fills him with despair. He can't have her, he knows this, the demonstration had been meant to knock that templar down a notch, but it'd injured Anders and Hawke in the meantime.

So closely she watches him, her hazed eyes set aglow from the passion of his touch. He steals a step away from her, and another, his mouth shaping an apology that he dare not speak, before he turns and stalks back to his clinic, returning to his clinic as the proverbial pumpkin. Maker willing, maybe some bandits will kill him along the way.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: WooHoo! Another update. I definitely think I am back on track with these bad boys, thankfully. SO! Believe it or not, this entire story began with the desire to write a BAMFY Anders. I was tired of watching the woe is me one and thought - you know, what? He's a Grey Warden, time to act like one. So! You should begin to see the beginning of that in this chapter with the preparation for the Deep Roads. And you'll definitely notice differences in the Deep Roads as well. After Origins, I wanted the Deep Roads in DA2 to be similar - scary, dark, encased in a tomb of rock. So there will be more to the Deep Roads... I'm even debating a broodmother, cuz *yeesh* they scare the heck out of me. Anyways, I hope you enjoy! And please let me know what you think of my Deep Roads ideas. _

_Thanks to everyone who has been favoriting/reading/reviewing/subscribing, etc. It means the world to me! Reviews are like crack and I need my daily fix haha._

_BioWare owns the forest, I simply play in the trees._

* * *

Chapter 13

Hawke

Oh, Maker, had that actually been Anders? Her lips sear from that blaze of a kiss. It had been entirely different than the previous two - not that the second counts. She'd done it as a joke to swipe his purse in revenge. And the first had simply been meant as thanks - but this... this was entirely different. The feel of his hot mouth on hers, the press of his tongue - almost desperate as though he could devour her. She hadn't even been aware he felt in such a way. Every time she found herself in his presence, he seemed almost distracted and annoyed that she was there. She might be quite naive when it comes to matters of the heart, but that's not a sign of attraction... is it? Perhaps he just got carried away with the excitement of the moment and this blighted outfit Isabela tossed her in.

Even as she's spun back around to face the line of people awaiting her attentions, she can feel the press of his fingers digging into her back, the weight of him perched above her, and his scent... all amber and cedar - likely from his clinic - and strangely, tea leaves. A pleasant scent that she can feel settling into her lungs even though he isn't here.

She feels herself being passed around like a possession, handed between many different pairs of hands. And so many mouths fall upon hers, some with the wet flick of a tongue, others just a graze of pouted lips. The people all flash before her eyes and she's distantly aware of her hands filling with coin. But she can't focus because all she can think about is Anders.

"Hawke," a deep voice rouses her interest.

She blinks, peering out the window of her mask and dropping her gaze down to the stubby man before her. Now, this one she would know anywhere. How many dwarves are there in Kirkwall that would dress as a hawk? A small laugh bubbles from her lips as she flicks the beak, but even that is distracted.

"That... was Anders, right?" she murmurs.

His silence is answer enough. It was. And her knees suddenly turn to jelly. She knew who it was the moment that tongue flicked against her lips.

"I... should go talk-"

"Uh, I wouldn't recommend that Hawke. Blondie didn't look too happy when he left. Give him some time."

_Time? For what? _

"Come on," his hand seals around hers. "I want a dance with the increasingly acclaimed Hawke. I did, after all, choose my mask after you," he winks.

Her laugh is soft but she lets him pull her out onto the dance floor once more. She's never danced with a dwarf before - not that it matters - she's only a head taller and the two find their groove immediately. And within minutes, her friend has her laughing as he dips and shimmies her, and spins her in endless wild circles that lifts her dress again.

"Thank you," she murmurs to him as he brings her in close again.

He slants a warm glance up to her. "For what?"

"For being my friend," she shrugs. "I was in a dark place that night you dared to speak with me. And since then..." she pauses to spare a glance, able now to pick out her friends: Fenris, as a wolf; Isabela, as a naughty pirate; Aveline, even, as a peacock; and Merril as a halla. She just nods, her words dropping off.

"Ah, you're going to make Bianca cry, Hawke," Varric says gruffly, turning his gaze away. "And when Bianca cries, well her daddy-"

She laughs and drops forward, her lips grazing against his in a friendly kiss. They both stagger to a stop and Hawke grins devilishly at him. "Everyone else got one tonight, so I thought you deserved one as well."

"Hawke, don't get me wrong, I like you," Varric chuckles. "But my heart is taken. And we're going to have to pretend you didn't do that because Bianca's quite the jealous little- well, don't say I didn't warn you."

Laughter spills from her lips just as another pair of hands latches onto her hips and spins her away from her friend. Steeled griffon armor shines before her eyes and above it, that lightly tanned face with amber eyes and a softly bowed mouth watching her.

"Your... partner has left," he grumbles in a sour voice, as though she hadn't already known that.

"Really?" she whispers, leaning around Alistair with forced wide eyes. "I hadn't noticed. Hey, does that mean you know the future as well?"

"Oh, ha ha," he laughs lightly, his mood lifting, the sparkle to his eyes returning quickly. "But you're wrong."

"I am? So... you can't tell the future?" she tsks him under her breath. "Well, there goes all my sneaky plans to make extra gold."

"You're joking," he chuckles. "Haven't you earned enough, kissing all these nobles?"

"Jealous?" she teases, her brows arching skyward.

"Maker, yes," he admits, an earnest twist of his lips pulling on his mouth.

Her chin jerks up, brow furrowing behind the mask. Perhaps... now is the time to have a certain conversation with him. Nose wrinkling, Hawke drops her gaze to his shined boots. "Listen, Alistair -"

She meant to tell him that there's only one guy out there she's interested in, the one that had just melted her glass slippers into sand. But at that moment, Alistair dips forward, his mouth finding its way to her ear. Admittedly, she shivers, but it's likely due more to the feel of his warm breath ghosting over her skin than anything else. "You haven't kissed everyone yet."

His lips brush against her cheek as he moves back, until he hovers that small distance over her mouth. Hawke would like to say she feels nothing in this moment, but her heart does skip an entire beat, her stomach twisting with the knowledge that he's about to kiss her, just not with excitement. The other nobles had swept in instantly, stealing her mouth with little passion or desire, but this... she knows means more to him. And then his lips are on hers. It's not meltable, not like how it'd been with Anders, but she doesn't draw away from him. His kiss is soft and gentle, his tongue slipping between the seam of her mouth. It's instinctual that her lips part, allowing him the entry he seeks. He tastes of wine and fruit - a sweet combination that she takes pleasure from, as some of the previous kisses had tasted of nothing but tobacco. His hand presses into her back, but there's no pressure, no heat or need pouring off him, at least not for her. A slow dance, the kiss feels like something she would share with Carver, and her back tenses with such a thought.

He breaks away first, his hooded eyes regarding her as she steps back. How she wishes she could give him what he seeks, but her heart beats steadily, her stomach calm and relaxed, her pulse dormant. The flush to his cheeks is endearing, but it hadn't stopped her heart like it had with _him_. She nibbles on her lower lip, casting her eyes down to their feet, ignoring the heated spark to his eyes. When did tonight become so complicated? She had come to make coin, not to kiss _every _man in Kirkwall. Though, there actually is _one _more left and briefly she wonders how he would take to such a thing.

"Go on, now," Alistair laughs breathlessly. "Your adoring crowd still awaits your attention."

She joins in with him before turning and skirting off, a little frightened by what she saw in his eyes. Especially since she does not feel the same.

She's picked up immediately, swung in circles around the room. It seems everyone wants a spin with the dragon, mesmerized by the fire blazing up her arm. Hands after hands, lips after lips, coin after coin, and all the while, Isabela swirls around her, smirking every time another steals Hawke's attentions. She certainly has her own admirers, that's for sure.

She's spun once more and she nearly stumbles, caught off guard by the fact that no one is there to steady her. At the last moment, a firm arm slides around her waist and a cool hand latches onto hers. The steps are immediately picked up and she glances up to find Fenris leading this dance.

"I know this one," he tells her in that deep, sensual voice of his. "It's Tevinter."

And for once he doesn't seem angered by this. She can smell the wine on his breath and wonders if that may have something to do with it. His costume had to be designed to cover the markings but as they begin to sway together, his hands guiding her hips against his, those lyrium brands begin to glow beneath the garments.

"Fenris..." she murmurs.

"Do not worry, Hawke," he tells her. "I'm not in a murderous mood."

She relaxes into him, pleased. The only time she's ever seen them alight with power is when such a mood steals him away.

"I didn't think you knew how to dance," she teases him.

"Neither did I."

No one comes to take her from him, not as they all did the others and she realizes from a quick sweep of the room, they are afraid of the wolf. Fenris notices as well, the way his shock white hair falls over his eyes.

"You shouldn't hide from them," she whispers, reaching up to sweep the fringe away from his face. "They are no different than you. In fact, you are worth more than any of them."

His eyes flash with her words but it's a sneer that turns his face away. "Then you are a fool for thinking such a thing."

She shakes her head, her fingers curving around his jaw to bring his face forward. She knows she could not move him if he didn't allow it, so it is by his own concession that he meets her eyes once more. There's pain within those forest pools and it hurts her heart to see it. So protective of her, always with his sword drawn to defend her, as though she is precious. She's filled with a desire to make him feel the same. That's what friends are for, after all.

"Maybe," she concedes. "I've been known to be a fool many times in my life. But they are a fool for only seeing the exterior. I know who you are, Fenris."

He blinks, his clawed fingers digging into her waist. "And who am I?"

She flashes a devastating grin his way before rising on her toes and stealing _his _lips. He jerks back, those eyes now wide and face pale beneath the mask. She can't help but laugh. _Now_, everyone has been kissed by the dragon. "You are my friend. And I would kill any of these people here if it means keeping you safe. You are no longer a slave and if the streets have to run red to prove that to you, then I will do it."

"Hawke..." he whispers, concern darkening his eyes.

"Don't worry, Fenris," she laughs. "I'm not in love with you and do not covet any secret desires for you at all. I am your friend and I offer you only that."

He relaxes, his fingers finding his way to hers once again. "Good. It has been… a long time since I have had the opportunity to have such a thing as a friend. I will… treasure it, thank you."

She laughs gently, nudging him with her thigh. "Lighten up and let's show them how it's done!"

Those lightly pinked lips spread into a shadow of a smile seconds before she's being flung effortlessly around the floor.

-.-

"Well?" she demands, practically dancing on the spot as she peers over the dwarf's shoulder.

"Well nothing, Hawke," he chuckles. "Keep your eyes off my sack until I'm done fondling it."

"Oh Varric, why do you bad-touch words like that?" she sighs, her head dropping forward as she shakes her head. "Just tell me already, I'm dying back here!"

"Enough for the Deep Roads plus some," he finally acknowledges, turning to spill the coin purse back into her hands. Not… that she isn't capable of counting cold, but the dwarf always seems to take a personal pleasure in such a thing.

A moment of silence passes between them. Hawke shivers, refusing to meet the dwarf's gaze in case he sees into her.

_They aren't running on the surface anymore so where do you think they've gone? They've returned to the Deep Roads - to the darkness..._ She recalls Anders words. A hazy image of an ogre towering over her steals her sight away. It's hand clutches at something tightly and she winces when the bones of her sister snap.

"Hawke?" a hand brushes over hers and she jerks, blinking when she returns to the present to find Alistair hovering over her. "Are you alright?"

She nods, perhaps a bit too vigorously. No one seems to believe her. None of them know her fear of darkspawn - other than Aveline. And that woman leans against the molded wall, averting her gaze as resolutely as Hawke. Both lost rather important people to these creatures and now she's about to waltz down into the roads - willingly, no less - in search of riches and fame. It's lucky for Aveline that she isn't accompanying them. Hawke couldn't justify removing one of the city guards from their post - let alone the new Captain of the Guard.

"Who's all going?" Aveline questions, still refusing to meet Hawke's eyes.

She forces a swallow, her gaze darting over all her friends crowded within the room. Well, almost all. Anders has been most elusive. Both times she went to speak with him, he was gone. She's beginning to believe he's avoiding her. They haven't spoken since Funalis.

She lifts her chin to regard Alistair who dips his head in acknowledgement. He already informed her that he would be tagging along. And she is grateful. Entering such depths with Grey Wardens is certainly more than she initially expected.

"Alistair," she names him. "Varric, obviously. Isabela?" her voice lifts with the question.

"Couldn't keep me away, kitten," the woman smiles. "Where there's gold, there's pirates."

"What about Anders?" Aveline questions. "You _need_ a healer there with you, Hawke. You cannot ignore that."

She lifts a small shoulder. "I haven't spoken with him since before Funalis. Every time I go to his clinic he's gone."

Isabela and Varric share a glance, one that Hawke can easily interpret. It wasn't difficult to learn that they were the scoundrels behind that little set up. What were the odds of her and Anders both ending up as dragons? It's clear it was a scheme, one that Hawke is still trying to get to the bottom of. Thankfully, her other companions seem oblivious to the identity. But looks can be deceiving. Did they all witness that kiss before he left?

"Make time to find him," Aveline orders her, ignoring the cocked brow of Hawke. She pushes off the wall and offers a single nod to the group collected. "I have some business to attend to, but I will quite put out if any of you do not return."

Hawke knows that's the best they will get from Aveline and she simply nods as the woman storms out of the clinic.

"Merrill can heal - a little," Hawke grimaces, knowing that they really do need Anders. But the thought of declining to such depths, encased in stone for Maker knows how long, with Anders - she both shivers with anticipation and dread. An image rises unbidden - his bedroll next to hers with him… She shudders, ignoring the questioning stare from Varric.

"Hawke-" he starts but she waves it off with a careless hand.

"I'll… just go find him and see if he's ready."

She moves to leave, a shadow hovering before her the moment she reaches the door.

"You did not name me," his deep voice lifts.

Hawke tips her head up to meet the questioning stare of Fenris. "I actually need something else from you," she murmurs. "If you are willing."

His head dips, that bleached hair brushing before his eyes. "Ask."

"My mother," she comments. "I need you to watch her. My uncle has been known to do foolish things. Just make sure that nothing happens to them while I am gone. I don't know how long it'll take us to return."

His head tilts but finally he nods, releasing her and allowing her to continue down to Darktown.

-.-

For the third time in the week following Funalis, Hawke finds herself hovering before Anders' clinic. Her fingers twist into her thin overtunic - a telling sign of her nerves. She stares at the door, wondering if it'll open on its own just from the weight of her gaze. She has absolutely no idea if he is even inside and part of her doesn't want to find out. Since Funalis, every night has been wasted to the memory of that sizzling kiss. Without realizing it, her fingers lift and run a path along the swell of her lower lip. The memory rises unbidden and her stomach clenches, heart fluttering. Those fingers quiver at the base of her mouth. What concerns her is the unsure state of her thoughts. She isn't sure if she wants to walk in and pretend that it never happened or pin the poor mage to the wall and have her way with him. Surely, that would stop these thoughts. Or at least, that's what Isabela claims. _Get him out of your system and you'll be clear headed again, kitten_. Whether that's sound advice or not, she has no way of knowing. She isn't entirely… experienced in these kinds of matters.

Her eyes narrow on the singular grains of wood within the door. Does she knock? Does she just enter? Everything feels so tangled in her head. Quite a dizzying turn her life has taken. From protecting her family from templars, to invading the Deep Roads searching for treasure. And somewhere in all that is this man - an apostate, no less - that rattles the very ties that hold her to this life. When did her life become so close to her mother's?

"Hawke?" her eyes flutter shut at the sound of his voice. Oh, _Andraste's mercy_, this is not good. How in the Maker's name is she going to last this excursion if he's there? And why did this even have to happen? Why did she have to help this mage escape the templars all those years ago? Would this even be happening if she hadn't? Though, she knows she would never change that.

When she finally turns, her cheeks color immediately and she drops her gaze down to the boots, counting the blood spots staining the tips. "Anders," she mumbles. "What are you doing out here?" her eyes flick back to the clinic entrance where she'd been sure he was inside.

There's a faint smile tugging at his lips. He shifts the packages in his grasp, peering at her over the top of the parcels. "I can't spend every minute of the day locked up in here, now can I? The more appropriate question might be, what are you doing here?"

"Oh," she mumbles, waiting for the blush scouring her cheeks to pale. She steals a single step back, placing distance between them, hoping for the magnetism to fade. Her fingers clench at her sides, fisting into the overtunic, immediately searching for the comfort of her blades. When she finds them, she runs her thumbs over and over the rounded hilts. It calms her heart and centers her. Unfortunately, Anders isn't lost to her ministrations and an unspoken thought drifts across his face. For a moment, she debates simply running. Merrill can heal, certainly. But his eyes pin her to the spot and she feels like a rabbit, caught in the jaws of her slathering mabari.

The smile is wiped from his face as he skirts past her and knocks open the door. "Come in."

Two simple words - _come in - _and her heart startles like a bird. Surely, he has patients inside. At least in there they won't be alone together. She slowly follows after him, falling still at the sight of the empty clinic. The Maker has a sense of humor, it seems.

Anders lowers the parcels down onto the cot she last woke on. And her face flushes once more. Had he been in the same room with her while in that state? She slams the door shut on that thought, refusing to think of him watching her as she mumbled in her sleep as she is wont to do.

"We should talk-" "We're leaving for the Deep Roads-" they both speak at the same time.

Hawke tears into her lower lip. She doesn't _want_ to talk, not with the tone of voice he just adopted. He falls just as still as her, watching her now as the hunter does the prey. And she would know.

"You're leaving for the Deep Roads," he repeats.

She flinches when his boot heel comes down on the planked wood and he slowly makes his way toward her. She has to swallow past the lump that forms in her throat and she nods.

"You mean we as in… not me," he points out.

Her gaze slides lengthwise across the room, avoiding him. "I-I would understand if you don't-"

"Marian," he calls her name, silencing her awkward drabble.

Her jaw claps shut, wide eyes darting immediately to him. He's never called her by her first name. In fact, the only ones that do are her mother and uncle. It seems strange to hear it come from him.

"I told you I am going and I am. You _need_ me down there."

"Alistair-"

"Is not a healer," he barks before sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I told you I would come, I meant it."

"If-If you're sure… I don't want you to feel as though-"

He drops down in the nearest chair, his elbows sliding to the inside of his thighs as he holds his head. "Hawke, we really need to talk."

She doesn't realize she's fidgeting until she hears the slight scrape of her boots against his wooden floor. "Look, it's alright if what happened… didn't mean anything-"

"That's the problem," he grumbles into his hands, refusing to lift his head to regard her. "It _did_ mean something, at least to me. But it _can't_."

"It did?" she asks in such a soft voice, blinking blankly as she stares at him. Her stomach twists tightly and a warm fist ensnares her heart even as it thumps heavily.

He lifts his head then, a scowl darkening his face. "You didn't think it did?"

She simply shrugs. "I don't… have much experience… uhm-" she flushes again.

When he pushes to his feet, she jerks her eyes back up, meeting the fizzle of his. How she wants him to close the distance between them but she knows he won't - she can see the determination in his face to keep them apart.

"If I'm to go into the Deep Roads, I take the lead," he tells her, apparently abandoning that conversation so quickly. "Not Alistair, not you, not whoever else is coming. You listen to what I say"

"But Alistair is-"

"A Grey Warden, yes I know, but it doesn't matter. I take lead. I won't go down there again only to be led to slaughter. If it's my mistake, so be it, but I won't put my life - or yours - in anyone else's hands."

She shivers at the possessiveness in his voice and eventually nods. "Then down we go, into the deep."

He immobilizes her with another look. "I mean it, Marian. You do as I say, when I say it."

She shouldn't feel such a trill of pleasure with those words, should she? She nods, imagining all the many ways this could fall apart.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Glad everyone likes the beginning to BAMFY Anders, a little more in this chap to :) Enjoy! And thanks so much to everyone. I appreciate each and every one of your responses and shall get to them right quickly here :)_

* * *

Chapter 14

-Hawke-

* * *

The air feels nice on her skin, the breeze coming off the sea fresh and invigorating. She can taste the salt with every breath, feel the humid warmth to the air, and hear the ruffling of the trees in the distance. Above, birds swim the flood of air like tiny ships, streaking across the clear blue sky with purpose. Below, her feet come down in the gently disturbed soils, toeing aside the stray assortment of animal bone and rocks. With their first step out of the city, she feels the tension she hadn't known she was carrying slide off her shoulders. Ironic, seeing as they are heading for the Deep Roads. The city... oh, how she loathes it; all the stone, blackdamp, and smoke. But out here - she tips her head back and inhales the fresh air. So long it's been since she's been able to enjoy anything remotely close to the forest of home.

She hears a slight chuckle behind her and she turns, eyes falling on Varric. The shadows beneath his eyes have lifted as well; it seems she isn't the only one enjoying this excursion beyond the chained slaves perched upon the city walls.

"Enjoying yourself, Hawke?"

A smile flashes brightly over her face, like a bright ray of sunshine.

"Oh, Hawke loves the Wilds," a deep voice laughs, interrupting whatever she meant to say.

A quick glance over her shoulder shows Alistair grinning broadly at her, the recollection of their time in the Wilds darting over his face.

"I sense a story there!" Varric laughs.

"You always sense a story," she grumbles.

"Hawke mutters angrily at the dwarf."

Her steps pause, a blank stare falling on him. "What?"

"Hawke questions curiously."

She swings a glance to all her friends - more than one of them snickering behind their hands. The only quiet one is Anders as he leads the way toward the entrance that apparently he chose. Since leaving Kirkwall, he's kept a distance from them all, but the most noticable is Alistair. For some reason, Hawke had thought they would bond, both escaping from the same Order. Until she catches the burning glare that lands on Alistair before flitting to her neck. Hawke clears her throat, trying to keep her hands at her side instead of touching where he stares. Could he possibly be angry for that little incident? He hadn't _meant _to choke the life from her. It was instinctual - though, it seems the healer holds it against him.

"Just tell the story," she waves at Alistair, hoping to stop whatever new obsession the dwarf has found.

His words spill forth immediately and Hawke tunes him out, stepping up flush with Anders. It seems the bastard prince is a natural story teller himself, spinning a tale of bravery and courage in the face of darkspawn. Apparently no one else saw that she'd been trembling in her boots in the face of the darkspawn. Hearing the words again, she _still _shivers as the unbidden memories rise before her eyes.

"You _fought _at the king's side?" this from Anders, under his breath as he darts a sparse glance down at her. "You're brother never mentioned that. He mentioned the army, but not that you were there _with _King Cailan..."

She hefts a shoulder, turning her eyes out toward the sea. It really isn't something she enjoys discussing, seeing as the king died by her side as well. Eyes turn to her the moment Alistair regales how she dropped down from the sky, slaughtering the small horde of darkspawn that had surrounded them. He makes her sound like some hero - but really, she recalls the day as a haze, almost too blind to shoot straight.

Everyone chuckles when he informs them how they had to strip her down to her smalls to deal with the tipped arrow lodged in her chest. Amusing now, but she can still feel the cold steel slipping under her skin, widening the base of the wound to extract the metal fragments. One doesn't laugh along and she tilts her head to regard him, his lips pursed with discomfort.

"Anders?" she whispers.

His eyes dart to hers for but a moment before returning to the path. "It isn't funny," he mumbles darkly. "Do you know how easily you could have died?"

Right, _healer_. Of course, that would concern him. "Well, I'm still alive," she mentions with a shrug. "The ogre could have killed me just as easily, so could any of the darkspawn I've come across."

He peers down at her, a queer look hovering over his face like a cloud. "You know, Hawke, you would make a great Grey Warden. Not many survive darkspawn attacks, let alone without contracting the taint."

She shudders with the thought. "There used to be a time where that was all I could think of," she confesses. "But then I joined the army, and everything changed."

He nods and drops off, returning his stare to the path until he finally drags them to a stop, pointing through a wide opening. "Deep Roads entrance," he comments with a low sigh. "Never thought I'd be here again."

Hawke tears into her lower lip, peering into the thick darkness.

"It's not too late to turn around," he whispers.

She dares to steal a glance up at him, watching as the breeze pulls free a few strands of his newly darkened roguish hair from his low, loose tie. No one else is paying attention to their conversation.

"Don't do this, Hawke," he presses, turning to fully face her. "The Deep Roads are dangerous. Yes, you've faced darkspawn, but you don't have any idea what awaits us down there. I do. Believe me when I tell you, we will not all return if we descend into these pits. And who of your friends are you willing to lose?"

She's suddenly thankful both her siblings are either dead or off fighting somewhere else. They would have insisted on descending with her and she wouldn't have been able to stop them. But she knows there really isn't any way to turn back around. Without this expedition, her mother will forever be trapped in Lowtown with her rake of a brother. And that simply isn't acceptable. It's for her that Hawke does this. She sighs and jerks forward, signaling them onwards.

He dips his head and steps into the shadows, leading the way exactly as he demanded. Hawke follows in his wake, lost to more than just his shadow.

-.-

Small, engraved little grooves darken the thick steel that severs them from whatever lies beyond. Hawke's fingers dip within the etchings, tracing the swirls and loops of these words she's never seen before.

"Dwarven," Bertrand speaks up from behind her in that gruff voice she's already grown accustomed to.

"Can you read it, brother?"

A small huff but he falls silent. Hawke peers back over her shoulder, her eyes hovering from within the thick shadows of her hood. The moment Anders led them within this chasm, she retreated to the soft material, tucking her still long tresses beneath. She isn't the only to have fallen quiet. Alistair and Anders haven't spoken much beyond necessity since entering. Of those present, they are the three that know what they are about to face. Her fingers fall lightly upon Dread's neck, fingers twisting into the fur. His soft whine punctuates the darkness and she releases him with a guilty grimace.

"It reads 'Beware those that dare cross the barrier. May the stone guide you."

Hawke's gaze darts to Anders but he isn't watching her. He's instead staring at this doorway, lost to some serious thought. A chill sweeps over her with his words and she retracts from the lettering, not entirely impressed with it any longer.

"You can read dwarven?" Bertrand demands.

But he simply shakes his head and extracts something folded and small from his jacket. "They all say the same thing. I had a friend that told me of it."

He sounds so lost, his voice taking on all that she feels. Whatever joy she found in being away from the city vanished long ago. They haven't even descended yet and she can feel the darkspawn belong, writhing about in the putrid masses, awaiting them. And that's simply her imagination. So what do the Warden's feel?

The two are stiff; shoulders rigid, fingers tensed against their blades, eyes narrowed in concentration. It does not inspire courage from her, but rather a fresh wave of fear.

Anders head tilts and she feels that gaze land on her. His fingers hold some key to the massive circular door, but he doesn't turn it, not yet.

"We can leave, right now, Hawke," he tells her under his breath. And for a moment, how she longs for nothing else. She lifts her eyes to his, her skin tingling under the weight of it. He shuffles slightly, bending at the waist so his mouth nears her face. "Right now," he repeats. "We can turn around, go back to my clinic..." he lets the thought drop off and with a shiver, her lids fall shut. Oh, she can finish the thought and for a moment, she's so tempted. Everything within her cries for just that. So she can't believe it when she shakes her head. Though, she does brave enough to reach up, and brush the dark as night hair off his face. They both look as though they just came from the ball; hers still draped about her back and his - as black as hers - hanging in thin ropes next to his face. If she ever needed proof it was him - beyond his words from the clinic - this is it.

His eyes drift shut and he exhales, the sweet scent of his breath smacking her in the face. And then he's gone and he twists the key.

The door pulls away from them on its own, groaning tiredly from the length of time it's remained undisturbed. It drags itself over to the wall before falling silent once more.

She's unsure what she expected. Light, perhaps, to pour out? Monsters to suddenly attack? With how her hands leap to her bow, it seems so. But they're only met with absolute darkness. And no matter how she may slit her eyes, she cannot peer through the heavy veil. She foolishly wonders just how they will see when Anders' fingers drift up his back and draw his stave, tapping the butt of it against the smooth stone until a gentle glow of silvered light spreads its reach through the inky blackness.

"Down we go, into the deep," Alistair whispers next to her.

For reasons unknown to her, she quivers with his words. It's only the thought of penetrating such depths with two Grey Wardens that allows her heart to slow. But surely, every darkspawn within reach will hear the desperate thump? Her blood rushing through her veins, chest heaving for air.

It seems only Anders is aware and with a queer look darting across his face, he turns from her and is the first to step into the deepness.

No one moves and refusing to leave Anders to the darkness, alone, she immediately follows after him, her toes right on his heels. She presses almost flush against his back, hovering within the small glow of light. And when he slows, she slams into him, her cheeks immediately coloring when he peers over his shoulder at her.

He doesn't say a single word but at the clammy feel of his hand sliding through hers, she startles and stares down on the joined fingers. And then he's moving once more, his hand guiding her in time to his steps. She shouldn't be this frightened. But there is something about darkspawn that makes her mouth run dry. Mercenaries, bandits, qunari, none of these things affect her as these blighted creatures do. From nightmares, they are. And in the darkness, she can see them much more clearly - their clawed fingers tearing into flesh, those flashing teeth shredding bodies, those mutilated faces, and milky animalistic eyes.

The caravan continues for longer than she likes, delving deeper and deeper. Her skin slowly begins to crawl when she looks up and guesses that there must be at least a couple tons of rock just.. sitting above them. One simple crack, and it all could come crashing down atop them. Something else for her to fear, it seems. She doesn't mean to let her breath catch, but Anders must hear something, for he glances back at hear once more.

"Hawke?"

She nods, perhaps a bit more exuberantly than necessary. His fingers give a gentle squeeze but they continue on. _Buck up, _she tells herself, shaking clear these lingering thoughts. They will not help her in this situation - only serve to get her killed faster.

Eventually, hushed conversation rises up behind her and she zones out, listening to the light banter between the hirelings, talking of their families and homes, things that Hawke can picture. So when Anders comes to a stop, she stumbles against him once more. This time he doesn't turn.

The crowd comes to life behind her and she turns in time to watch Alistair parting through it like water. His face is mostly hidden in shadow but there's something beneath it... Her chest hitches, fingers digging into Anders.

"You sense that?" Anders asks shortly, hardly sparing a glance at the other Warden.

Alistair grunts, his attention actually lingering on their joined hands. "How many?"

Her stomach drops and her free hand ensnares Dread again. His heavy weight brushes up against her, warm tongue flicking against her wrist. She feels like a frightened rabbit and though it disgusts her, she can't seem to turn it away.

"A dozen, maybe?"

And then he's leading again, pulling them off to the right where a second corridor breaks off. All she sees is rubble surrounding them, nothing to even suggest these are a part of the roads Varric told her about in great detail. She's not sure what she expected, but rock and more rock isn't it. How these men even know where they are going, she has no idea.

Time becomes fluid and she begins to count her breathes as a method of gauging how much is spent in this corridor. Her last count was three thousand and forty two when Anders slows once more and points over, calling everyone's attention to something. She follows the line of his arm, her eyes widening.

There it is - the pathway Varric described to her. The corridor ends and gives way to a large path. For the first time, her fear is minimal and she pushes past Anders and Alistair to approach. A warm glow of light presses into the corridor and she walks toward that, Dread hot on her heels. She just wants out of this damp corridor and with her hand grazing against the stone, she reaches the entrance and peers around it. Long, vaulted roads, carved from the stone itself is what greets her. Rubble lays strewn about on the ground, covered in growths and spots. And carved into the walls are etchings similar to what they saw on the steel door. The dwarven deep roads.

The trembling in her muscles eases and her lips actually pull into a faint smile. For reasons unknown to her, she feels... safer in these vaulted roads. Dwarven engineering always withstands the test of time and though they've been abandoned, they still stand.

Her foot falls against a small scatter of rubble as she exits the corridor and enters the road. Now _this _is what she pictured with Varric's words.

"Blocked," an incensed voice growls behind her.

She turns to find Bertrand in close proximity, staring ahead to the end of the road. When he starts shouting at his hirelings, she tunes him out and continues drifting. It isn't until she hears soft footfalls behind her that she spins to find Isabela, Alistair, Anders, and Varric all wandering with her. Isabela looks the most intrigued, her eyes sweeping the very roads themselves, likely for treasure. Anders and Alistair are each staring off in different directions, as though they can hear things the rest can't. And Varric watches her, grinning at the infuriated words spilling from his brother's lips.

Moving in sequence, Alistair and Anders turns and drop off to the left and Isabela, Hawke, and Varric to the right. A sparkling throng of rocks catches her eye and she drops down, brushing her fingers against the strange dust.

"So..." Isabela murmurs. Hawke peers back at her, blinking at the sight of her friend grinning wickedly down on her. "You and the mage?"

Hawke shifts, wide-eyed. "Me and the mage, what?"

"You know," she laughs breathlessly, her hands settling against the thin column of her waist. "You and the mage, hoping to get all grindy with one another..."

"Isabela!" Hawke scoffs, her gaze shifting just to the other side where Alistair and Anders stand. Oh, Maker, she hopes they didn't hear that. Anders _appears _unaware of their conversation, but she doesn't trust the entirely too innocent look sculpting his face, though he does appear determined to keep an eye on the roads.

"What?" Isabela laughs, swooping down on Dread to scratch behind his ears. "You think we didn't all see you up at the front there, _holding hands_, or at the ball... that was quite the kiss, kitten. Certainly turned me on."

Hawke groans, her dusted hand dragging down her face. "Everything turns you on, Isabela." She and Varric share a grin together.

"Yes, well, it doesn't change the fact that you two are into each other. So what's the hold up, kitten?"

"_Maker_," she sighs, stealing another glance at the man as he quietly points something out to Alistair. The dark as night hair slowly starts to lighten, potion effects wearing off it seems. And when the golden waves spill back down around his face, she smiles. "What is it about Amell women and bloody apostates?" she mutters, though louder than she intended.

The pirate rocks with laughter, eyes simply shimmering with delight at her admission. "I'm sure if you ask nicely, that man would love to put his..." she pauses, winking briefly before chuckling, "magic staff to use."

Hawke chokes, her cheeks coloring furiously. For some reason, she steals another glance to find the mage in question now watching them with a perplexed look crossing his face. She gulps past the lump in her throat, just _wishing _to abandon the pirate down here. What in the Maker's name made her think it was intelligent to bring Isabela of all people down into the roads? She drops her gaze down to her boots, suddenly interested in the specks of blood staining the leather. "I'm just going to go feed myself to the nearest emissary, if you're all alright with that."

The pirate's laughter chases after her as Hawke seeks refuge around the next boulder, Dread her only company now. Silently, she's cursing Isabela to the void and back again, wondering if it's entirely wrong to feed _her _to the first darkspawn they cross.

Something glittering catches her attention and she takes a knee, gently pushing aside the rubble. She doesn't stop, her mind completely awhirl with everything Isabela said. But she also remembers what Anders said in his clinic. _It did mean something, at least to me. But it can't. _She doesn't like the sick feeling twisting her stomach. And what is his reasoning? So many thoughts cross her mind, ranging from a secret lover elsewhere in Thedas to a secret vow made to the Chantry - the last the most ridiculous. Anders has made it no secret how much he loathes the Chantry.

Her thoughts fall silent when she finally realizes that she's brushing off a pile of bones. Grimacing, she rises and turns, gasping - heart leaping to her throat - at the sight of Anders standing behind her. Just as in his clinic, an unspoken thought darkens his face but it's gone with the next thump of her heart. Instead his hand rises, fingers curling over her cheekbone.

"Dust," he tells her, gently brushing it off before turning and walking away.

Her shoulders round, her breath falling past her lips as she watches. Oh, Maker, she's in trouble.

"Hawke!" Varric calls her over with a wave. "Caved in. I told Bertrand we would scout another entrance."

Joy of joys. "Should one of the Wardens remain here?" she questions, wondering if it would be safer for Bertrand and his people.

"I'm not leaving you," Anders states definitively. "You aren't going without me." Alistair decides at the same time.

Caught between the two, her eyes shift back and forth. Anders watches her with a firm look and she remembers the promise she made him above that she would do whatever he said. And Alistair appears just as rigid, so with a nod, she gestures them forward.

Isabela simply laughs as she slings an arm around Hawke's waist, bringing her flush against her. "Don't worry, kitten," she chuckles in Hawke's ear. "I won't let them eat you. Unless you want them to."

Her eyes widen and she catches yet another cold stare between the two Wardens. No camaraderie there, that's for sure.

-.-

One Warden each shift, that was decided the moment they set up camp, though Hawke can't remember how long ago that was. It feels like an eternity has passed since she slipped beneath her bedroll covers, struggling to warm up. She never thought it would be so _cold_, and _miserable _down here. Though it seems foolish not have expected that, looking back on it. Rock is inert and without a source of heat, how did she think to keep warm?

She shuffles in her bedroll once more, tucking her knees up into her chest. Her overtunic seems to be doing little in the way of keeping out the cold and even her bedroll is frigid. Anders had lit a fire a while back, but even that seems useless. Perhaps because they agreed to keep it small, so not to attract all the critters down here. Isabela appears to be having little trouble - completely lost to the fade. And Varric, well he may have been raised on the surface, but he's all dwarf and he claims he can't even feel the cold.

She flops over, her jaw setting in an attempt to cease the incessant chattering. Another failed effort, however.

Ruffling distracts her for a moment and her eyes flash open the moment she hears two deep voices rise.

"So, I've heard all about you, Alistair Theirin," Anders comments, taking a seat by the small flames, about to take his shift.

Alistair dips his head in acknowledgement. "So you've said before."

"Carver and Cousland told me all about you. My favourite part was your former training as a templar."

Hawke groans silently into the folds of her bedroll. She should have _known _that would cause an issue between the two men.

"And you're a mage," Alistair states quietly, though without the dark emotion brimming on his voice.

"Glad you noticed."

"Sort of hard not to," he chuckles, blowing into his palms. It would seem she isn't the only one that's cold. "All those stern glares gave it away. Plus the whole glowy light from staff thing... Morrigan's used to do that."

Hawke's mouth tugs into a smile. So, he had noticed the glares then.

There's a pause, and then Anders' voice rises within the small camp. "So you know what I can do to you then if you _ever _lay a hand on Hawke again."

Both Hawke and Alistair startle, eyes swinging up to stare at the glowering mage.

"That... was an accident," Alistair mumbles. "I would never-"

"But you did. Send her to me in that condition again and I'll make you wish the Joining had finished the job."

Hawke stills, staring up at that mage perched next to the soft glow of the fire. His face is so dark, his fingers tensing as though he _wants _the templar to test him. Tension thickens between them and Hawke wonders when they intend to finish this when Alistair finally laughs.

"I doubt you'd even get the chance, mage. She'd kill me herself, first." He rises from his stoop and walks over to his own bedroll. "Wake me when it's my shift again."

More time passes. Only the faint crackle of the fire can be heard and Hawke continues to flop around in her bedroll, hoping for just one moment's rest. So far, they've been lucky. But it's the deep roads, eventually they are going to run into darkspawn and she needs to be completely alert for that.

On what has to be the tenth time flipping over, searching for some source of heat, an overly warm hand falls on her cheek. Gasping, her eyes dart open and she finds Anders perched over her with a serious look to his face. The back of his hand moves to her brow and with a tight jaw, muscle leaping about, he pulls back her covers.

If possible, she grows colder and starts to coil into a ball when he pulls her up from the cold ground and directs her over to where he is keeping watch. He doesn't say anything, just drops his hands down onto her shoulders and pushes her down. Her lips part with questions when he suddenly drops down behind her, settling her between his legs.

Her breath catches, heart fluttering like a bird the moment his arms close around her, drawing the blanket around her shoulders. It's large enough to encompass them both. The warmth is immediate and it sinks into her body, chasing away the brutal chill. Eventually her lips stop quivering, teeth stop chattering, though her body continues to tremble - for an entirely different reason. She can _feel _him behind her, all muscle and planes. Still, he hasn't spoken and she doesn't intend to be the one to start.

* * *

-.-

-Anders-

* * *

It takes a while for him to realize the strange sound he's hearing is Hawke chattering away in her bedroll. He noticed her restlessness the moment he took shift, but he wasn't sure if she was awake or not. Even now, he's unsure. But he watches as she flops over, her face turns toward him, eyes pressed shut with lips tinged heavily blue.

Sighing, he rises from his stoop and approaches her, though she doesn't notice over the deafening clatter of her teeth.

He takes a knee by her bedroll and drops a hand down onto her cheek. Her eyes startle open, her lips parting as she sucks in a sharp breath. For a moment, he's lost to those crystal depths, but then he remembers his purpose here. The healer in him can feel the bone deep cold she suffers from. Her brow is slick with sweat, certainly not a good sign. The last thing they need is for her to grow ill down here. He doesn't offer any words, he simply draws back the bedroll, noting the faint dampness to her overtunic.

Drawing her up from her bedroll, he leads her over to his lookout, his jaw tightening at how willingly she follows him. So compliant, exactly as she promised, and his mind strays to an assortment of dangerous thoughts, eyes lifting to the large boulder perched outside their camp - a perfectly secluded spot -

He slams the door shut on that thought, shoving the images away and instead pushes her down onto his seat before settling in behind her with his blanket. She stiffens the moment his arms go around her but after a few moments, she begins to relax, the chattering ebbing.

It's a simple spell, one of the first he learned in the tower, but he warms the particles of the air surrounding them. From his angle, he watches as the color returns to her cheeks and her eyes begin to droop. It's been so long since a woman has fallen asleep against him, trusting him to keep her warm and safe and his chest aches with the thought. How she makes him feel... he shifts, hoping she doesn't realize just _how _she makes him feel - just how much he's enjoying this position. It would take little effort for his fingers to delve under her overtunic - the blanket covering them from any that may be watching. His lids drift shut and he sucks in a steadying breath. It would _not _do for him to encourage that.

He shifts once more and she pushes off him. "I'm warm now," she tells him. "I think I can sleep, thank you."

She means to leave, but his arms lock around her, drawing her back down into his chest. He shouldn't. He should just let her return to her bedroll, but his arms seem locked in place. He feels her move against him but he doesn't let his eyes open. Just another moment, then he'll let her go.

"Anders?" she murmurs.

His eyes flash open to find her kneeling in front of him, his arms draped around her waist. He shouldn't have done this. But she needed warming. He waits for Justice to take hold of his thoughts, ordering him to release her. He _waits_... But for some reason, Justice remains quiet. Groaning, he chases after her, his mouth falling on hers savagely. His arms jerk her forward, spilling her into his chest -

"Anders?" she questions again and he blinks, realizing that she still kneels before him and the kiss had been in his head. His eyes sweep over her lips, the temptation so strong to do just as he imagined.

He turns her back around and draws her slowly down into his chest, his arms helping her settle against him once more. If only he'd actually been brave enough to steal another kiss.

"Sleep," he tells her, knowing the press of her body will certainly keep him awake for the rest of his shift.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Oi! Two chapters tonight: this one and Shattered Glass! WooHoo! I so wanted to get this chapter up, it's been hovering around in the back of mind for a while. As I said, the Deep Roads are somewhere that I find creepy, so here it is! I hope you guys enjoy it, I did put *extra* effort into making it as creepy as possible :) It's quite late here, so I apologize for any spelling errors - I'm quite tired but was determined not to go to bed till it was done. _

_Thanks to everyone who is following along, your reviews always give me such a moment of bliss :) Like crack, I tell ya! So please don't forget to provide my fix and let me know how you liked this instalment of creepiness. _

* * *

Chapter 15

-Hawke-

* * *

Hawke awakes to a screech.

For an instant, a cloud of fear fogs her thoughts and she thinks she's been struck blind, submerged in the pitch black as she is. Her panic is immediate, a huff of breath falling past her lips in a stutter. Fingers press into the cold, damp stone beneath her, tracing the cracks, searching for _anything_ familiar. She can't breath - and not simply from fear, but the cloying putrid air. It feels poisonous to ingest, her throat absolutely searing with every inhalation. A faint buzzing chases after her scattered thoughts, imbedded deep in the back of her head. Beneath it all, there's a scant promise of her memories but she just can't seem to draw on them.

Her fingers drift down to her waist where her daggers _always _rest to find she's been stripped bare of them. Even her back is void of her bow. She sucks in another lungful, and another, panting as she scrambles backward until her back presses flush against something, gagging on the unbearable stench of decay. Hawke startles, her hands rising to trace whatever it is she found.

A substance wets her fingers - oily grime that clings to her skin. _Oh, Maker_, she knows this matter and her stomach twists under the threat of being ill. _Darkspawn corruption_. Anders had scolded her guilelessly when she nearly touched it.

_Anders_.

Her heart soars with the thought of his name. Surely, she isn't alone. She _can't_ be. They don't wander anywhere alone in the Deep Roads. Of course, that only raises the question of where in Andraste's mercy is she. And how did she come to get here?

"A-Anders?" she hisses into the pressing darkness. _Please let him answer_, she prays. But the only response is that of a _scritch, scritch, scritch_ that appears to be growing closer and closer with every breath.

Fear claws free of her throat in a strangled whimper and she presses into the frigid wall, drawing her knees up into her chest. Hot tears prick at the corner of her eyes. This can't be happening. Alone in the Deep Roads, it's her worst nightmare come true.

The sound shifts, deeper now - the patter of footsteps, dragging against the stone. There are only two possibilities: one of her companions, or darkspawn. She bows over her knees, pressing the heel of her palms into her eyes, rubbing ferociously as though it'll blank out this scene and replace it with another. Nothing happens. Of course it doesn't - the Maker doesn't guide his creations any longer. She's been cast down into these depths with no one to watch her back. Her hands fist into her excessively long hair and she pulls, shamelessly grinding her teeth.

It isn't until a pained whimper escapes the cage of her lips that she drops her hands down over her knees. _Be calm_, she tells herself. Panicking clearly will not help, though it's difficult to convince her heart to obey - she can hardly hear anything above its furious thumping. Waking alone in such darkness, surrounded by the carrion stench of darkspawn, pressed against the corruption likely twisting in thick, dark lines up the wall are not things that encourage calm.

The dragging steps grow closer and over the knocking of her heart against the inner wall of her chest, she can hear thick, broken snarls echoing against the walls. She falls absolutely still, desperately trying to not be there. But Anders' voice rises unbidden in her mind - _darkspawn see best in the dark_.

Her fingers seal around a cobble stone and she draws it into her chest, an ache setting into her knuckles as she squeezes. The grunts are directly above her and her chest tightens, her throat closing off her air. What do they want with her? Why didn't they just kill her? These are only two of the questions tearing through her mind. And there given no time when clawed hands latch around her ankle and yank her away from the wall.

Hawke strikes out, swinging her cobblestone like mad, heart leaping when it connects. The grunts turn to aggrieved howls just as a sharp pain takes her in the side. Her air explodes from her lips, her arms wrapping defensively around her middle section, absorbing a second and third blow. Those clawed fingers fall on her hands and begin to pry open. But she doesn't relinquish her only weapon.

The snap of her wrist bone is deafening to her ears and she shrieks, drawing her arms into her chest. The darkspawn descend upon her once more, gripping the column of her ankle and returning to their task as she keens over her wrist.

The pain dims with the fresh rush of adrenaline and she begins to struggle once more, reaching out with her good arm to snag _anything_ that might help. Every road they've come across up to this point is littered with bone and abandoned weapons, yet all she seems to grasp at is small rubble and dust.

"Anders!" his name spills forth, past her dry lips, the moment they turn a corner. He may not have been in the same area as her, but she can't give up. He may be nearby.

She loses track of how many corners they turn. All she's aware of is the glowing light that seems to be growing nearer. Anders' name is ripped from her lips more than once, her fingers still latching into the stone.

The hands drop her, her ankles driving down to the ground. Refusing to waste a single moment, Hawke scrambles to her knees and rushes in the opposite direction. A flash of silver catches just beneath her jaw and a whole night sky of stars lights up before her eyes. She drops back to the stone, watering eyes landing on a large mass just behind her.

For a moment, she's stricken senseless - eyes refusing to piece together exactly what it is she's seeing. Slowly, it begins to piece together and her heart - if it's even possible - stops dead in her chest.

A wriggling mass of... _something_ writhes against the stone, limbs flailing about as though reaching for something. Hawke's brows draw tightly down, her pain forgotten to the hideous sight of _whatever_ this thing is. Folds of flesh layer over another, each tipped with dusky nubs. _Teats_, Hawke realizes, horror running through her nerves like an icy wind._ What in the Maker is this thing?_

Again, she's given no time to sort things out before hands clamp down on her shoulders, driving her into the stone.

"_No!"_ she screams, trying in vain to free herself of their steel grips. But there are too many hands holding her down. Her eyes flick up and she gasps at the sight of darkspawn faces swimming in front of her face. One particular seems to stand out above the others and she falls still the moment she catches sight of something trickling out its mouth... _Maker!_

A _vile_ odor pervades the air itself and she gags, very nearly retching right there. A cloudy substance starts to run over its lips before trailing down over its chin. Its fangs glint in the faint firelight, the sharpened tips snapping together as it draws down over her face.

Terror chills her blood. Whatever they are doing, she wants nothing to do with and she starts shifting against the ground once more, clamping her lips shut. Horrified whimpers tear free of her throat, fingers scrambling against the stone as she searches for _anything_ to help her. Clawed fingers dig into her jaw and squeeze until she cries out, her mouth parting.

Hawke sucks in a deep breath, staring up at the creature hovering over her and does the only thing she can think of.

_"ANDERS!"_

* * *

-.-

_One Week Earlier_

* * *

It doesn't take much time at all to find a way around the cave in. In fact, it seems almost too simple. Not hours after they woke, Anders had them weaving in and around the paths and there it sat. Needless to say Bertrand is pleased. And they set out immediately with the hirelings in tow.

Still - they've come across nothing. Hawke has a feeling that's due more to the Wardens than luck. Every now and then, they would simply stop and crook their head as if listening to something no one else can hear. And then their path would be altered, heading down an entirely different road than before. Alistair and Anders hardly speak. They seem to have developed a method of silent communication. Occasionally, they share in sharp hand gestures before another pause. Then it's simply a nod and off they go in yet _another_ direction. She couldn't imagine being down here without them.

The thaig, itself, is different than any of them expected. Bertrand immediately drifts toward the stone walls to inspect the ancient carvings that have him grumbling furiously under his breath. As for the hirelings, they have set up camp and settled into the ritual they created since descending down here of storytelling and drinking. Hawke can see Varric itching to join them - though she fears whatever stories he has cluttering up that mind of his - but she has him convinced that scouting is more important.

There's certainly something different about these tunnels. The rock has a faint blush to it, glowing, almost, in their presence. All the other roads were simply inert stone. But here, there's almost a heat to the walls. But what concerns her is how quiet it is. In the roads, there was always this scrabbling - like nails against the stone. And when it came, Anders would flick a gentle spell out into the dark confines. There'd be a chorus of squeals, ones that set her hair on end, but they'd be gone. And in the distance, there was always the sound of rock crumbling down the walls, falling from the ceiling above. A thought that did not... sit well with her. Not here, though. Just plain silence.

They're stumbling along a path, Isabela, Alistair, and Varric laughing over some of the gossip they caught from the hirelings when Varric pauses, gaze drifting over to the wall.

"Look," he points over to a door that no one else had spotted.

As normal, Anders is the one to meander over and he places his hand against the door as though trying to see through it to the other side. The rest simply wait for his acknowledgement, keeping an eye on the surrounding roads for any sort of creatures that might just want to make a meal out of them.

His fingers curl around some sort of handle and he gives a great pull, the door slowly inching over. Hawke's fingers twitch, but there's nothing inside beyond an achingly bright light from atop a perched dais. A curious silence falls over the group and they make their way up together, Hawke, for once, leading the way.

Her gaze drops to the platform, eyes widening at the sight of some sparkling idol. Anders sways next to her and she glances up to find a strange blank look stealing away his features. He shifts, his arm rising, fingers aimed for the artifact. With a sharp hiss, Hawke's fingers ensnare his and she winds them together, yanking his arm back down.

"Anders!" she mutters. "That's lyrium!"

"I know," he states in a deadpan voice, reaching for it once more with his other hand.

Varric steps up toward them, snatching the artifact away before anyone else tries to handle it. Anders blinks, those warm eyes falling on her, brow narrowed with confusion.

"Lyrium," she says. "As in lethal to mages in its pure form. I don't know if that's pure or not, but I'd rather not find out."

"Yes," he mumbles, shaking his head clear of his thoughts. His free hand rises to curve over his cheek but the other tenses within Hawke's. "It's just the moment I looked at it... I could hear voices."

"That's never a good thing," Isabela laughs.

"You sure you should be handling that, Varric?" Alistair questions, peering over the dwarf's shoulder to investigate the item.

"I handle lots of things you humans can't handle," he snorts, lifting it in the air to get a better view.

Even Hawke feels the draw, watching as the light refracts against it, bending and shaping the very air around them. It seems to almost _crackle_.

"Varric?" a deep voice comes from the entrance and they all turn as one.

"Bertrand!" Varric laughs. "Look at this! An idol made of _pure lyrium_. Betcha that'll fetch us a nice price on the surface."

Varric tosses the idol toward him and turns to inspect the rest of the room.

Bertrand lets out a low whistle, turning the idol over and over in his hands. "Remarkable," he mutters. "It'll definitely fetch a good price, good job Varric."

The dwarf beams, not often on the receiving end of compliments from his brother. "Ah, it was nothing. Just a little plundering -" he continues to talk to his brother, taking to the stairs to near him.

"Ooh," Isabela breathes. "I could go for a little of that myself, right now," she suggests, sizing Alistair up from the side.

"Oh, Isabela," Hawke laughs. "You're always up for some plundering." She tries to listen to Varric and Bertrand's conversation but their words fade away and with a shrug she turns back to her companions.

"Yes, but I've never _plundered_ a templar. What do you say, big boy?"

Alistair startles, his eyes swinging over to her even as Hawke chuckles behind her hand. Anders is only partly watching, still in tune to the roads around them and the dangers they possess.

"Are... you talking to me?" Alistair stutters, his cheeks flushing horribly.

"Do you see any other large men, just bursting with such luscious muscles, marching around down here with us?" she offers, hitching a hip against him, her fingers trailing down the thick column of his neck.

"Hey!" Anders finally speaks up, for once smiling as he joins in on the fun.

Isabela chuckles, her fingers combing through the bottom of Alistair's hair. "Don't get your panties in a knot - your muscles are already being drooled on by another."

Anders tenses, gaze darting to Hawke's for the barest moments.

She feels the heat flood her cheeks and she turns away from them, returning to watching Varric. "_Maker,_ please, just stop," she begs Isabela.

Unfortunately, the pirate simply continues to chuckle, clearly finding amusement in all this that they don't. "You know, Anders," she continues. Hawke drops her head down into her hands, suspecting that this is not going to go well. "Speaking from experience, I should tell you - rogues enjoy it from behind."

Hawke jerks, her eyes swinging to Isabela with horror twisting her face.

Anders blinks, flicking a glance between the two women. "Enjoy _what_?"

She quirks a brow at him, a suggestive smile claiming her lips. "Think about it, sweet thing. I certainly will be."

Hawke can pinpoint the exact moment the comment clicks for him - not only does Isabela stock rocking with mirth, but Anders shoots a shocked look to her.

"Don't look at me," Hawke mutters.

"Oh, don't act like you don't want to, kitten. We all saw you two, snuggly wrapped in that blanket together, _all _night long."

"Hawke was cold!" Anders scoffs, turning away from the woman, shaking his head.

"In that case-" Isabela muses, sidling up to Alistair once more. "I'm awfully cold."

"_Maker's breath, _woman," he sighs.

Hawke turns away from them, glancing at Varric as he slowly begins to make his way back up to them. Bertrand still cradles the idol which she has no problem with. They'll see it again when they return to camp, later.

It takes a few moments for understanding to sink in. Varric is only halfway up the stairs, grinning over their amazing find; Isabela is still laughing, hanging off Alistair's arm; and Anders is shaking his head, a golden wave of hair shifting over his face. And at the bottom of the stairs, Bertrand is - pulling shut the door.

A shout spills from Hawke's lips. Before she can even process everything, she's running, practically flying down the stairs. He _cannot_ be serious! Bertrand wouldn't dare lock them in! Just for a few gold coin!

"Bertrand!" Varric shouts behind Hawke, apparently following after her.

She reaches the door just as it seals shut. And her panic sets in immediately. Part of what was keeping her calm down here was knowing they had a camp with a fire and way to find their path back to the surface.

She seems to be the first to realize there's no handle from the inside. _Maker's breath!_ What sort of dwarves construct a room with no way out from the inside. In her furious attempt to scramble away from the sight of the locked door, the heel of her boot comes down on someone's toes, if their gasp is evidence of anything.

_Trapped_. It's the only word that takes shape in her mixed jumbled of thoughts.

"No," she mumbles. They can't be trapped in the Deep Roads. In this _room_ until they die of starvation or something else entirely.

She rushes the door once more, flinging the other out of the way before she starts digging her fingers into the crack, hoping to pry it open. Fresh air, that's what she needs. Though some part of her knows that even beyond this room she won't find any. "No, no, no," she chants, wiping away the sweat dotting her brow as she works wrenching it open.

Hands curve over her shoulders and draw her back.

"Hawke," a gentle voice, almost as gentle as the finger that hooks under her chin, tipping her head back. "It'll be alright. There's always another way out."

Anders' eyes suck at her, drawing her in and she finds the words spilling out before she can stop them. "I don't like the Deep Roads. I don't like the darkspawn."

His lips crack and a huff of a laugh falls out. "You're just realizing this now?"

"No," she admits. "I knew this a long time ago. Since Ferelden. I thought I could handle it, but this," she waves at the door. "Being trapped -"

"We're not trapped," he reassures her. "We _will_ find another way out, I promise. If I learned anything during my time spent underground, there are always other ways."

She tries to smile, but her mouth only slightly crooks. "There better be."


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Wow! So glad you all liked the creepy broodmother scene! Your reviews and compliments made me work super duper hard to get this bad boy up and ready to go! Hopefully everyone likes it and please remember to offer me more of a fix :) Super love for all you, thank you so, so much!_

* * *

Chapter 16

-Anders-

It all happens so fast, in a streak of movement that clouds his vision. They're surrounded, the fetid stench of darkspawn pervading his nose. Dried blood encrusts their armor and blackness stains their primitive weapons. Funny, how he focuses on the small things - their decaying lips peeling away from their glittering fangs; their mottled, deformed heads twisting about on their bodies as they inspect their enemies; their clawed fingers slicing through the air as their acrid spittle runs down their chins. Next to him, Hawke trembles, but her fingers tighten around the smooth shaft of her bow. His magic responds to her energy, uncurling in the depths of his stomach, stretching through his every muscle. They attack, a mass of writhing bodies shifting and flowing over the rock as though they belong, blades meeting the weapons of their party plus three new companions.

For the briefest of moments, he's struck still, watching as Hawke fires off a percussion of arrows, each and every one taking her intended target. His heart swells in his chest as he watches. She does not let her fear consume her and from the twisted look carved into her face, she will not let them fall to these monstrosities.

One breaks past the first line and before Anders can call the heat within him to his hands, Hawke darts before him. A flash of steel, a hissed grunt, and the creature spills bonelessly to the ground, a red smile stretched over its neck. His hands lift and a glorious red power coalesces around his fingers, the promise of fire creeping over his knuckles and spilling up past his wrists. Hawke ducks when he tells her to and he releases the energy in a wide arc of flame. Their incensed grunts shift to howls as their carrion flesh pops and sizzles, blistering from the intense heat that he has never once felt. The fire spreads over their bodies and they twist and scream their agony.

Someone screams his name - Isabela he thinks - but before he can turn, something heavy slams into his back. His breath explodes past his lips as he's hurled clear across the roads. His skull rocks against the stone and his vision fades. He can't… move, but he can hear and the sounds that drift to his ears are beyond imaginable. No matter the chorus of screams tearing through the corridor, all he hears is Hawke - screaming at him to get up. He tries to surge up, his clawed fingers digging into the stone as he struggles to throw clean this paralysis that won't let him shift his legs. The healer within knows his back is broken and a simple healing spell will not be enough.

His vision finally clears and his head lolls against the stone to find his companions overrun. He _must_ go to them! It's as though time stops and Anders watches as one by one his companions fall to the darkspawn assault. There are simply too many of them. But it isn't Alistair that he notices or Isabela as she vanishes into a shadow - it's Hawke. Hands grip at her, yanking her in an entirely different direction. He can see her screaming, her face twisted savagely as she battles them off, but her blades are nowhere to be found and her bow lays abandoned in the center of this mess. The spells flow freely from him and slowly, the feeling begins to return to his legs. He can shift them now and he's lunging to his feet when something solid strikes Hawke in the back of head.

Her eyes rise to his, her face slack and pale. And before he can even suck in another breath, she falls.

_Oh, Maker!_ He can't breathe and his chest starts to burn. His magic gathers once more and he's about to cast a simple rejuvenation spell when the same blighted creatures overrun _him_. He's spilled to the ground, a notched bow aimed at his face. Anders sees blue, but it's the last thing he sees before he's shunted to the back of his consciousness and Justice rises.

-.-

His groan is deafening, his head pounding as he pushes up. _What in the Maker's name happened? _Anders cracks an eye open, ignoring the amount of effort it takes to simply do that. Only a faint glow of light welcomes him - a fire, if the crackling means anything. When had they lit one... he _can't _remember.

His head rolls against the cold stone, blurred gaze taking in all his companions, strewn about like ragdolls. It hurts when his brow wrinkles, but it doesn't stop him - there are too many companions to the number that he's been traveling with.

His tongue dampens his dry lips before he heaves to his feet, falling slack against the stone wall the moment the world shifts. Blue and silver armor with the symbol of a griffon etched into the breastplate sharpens before him. His eyes slit and he blinks, the heels of his palms digging into to his eyes to wipe away the grit.

Is that... Carver? The face is pointed away from him, but the dark as night hair and faint scar running across his cheek would suggest it is. And off to the side, one Aiden Cousland, placed right beside Nathaniel Howe.

At the sight of their faces, the fog lifts and Anders shoves off the wall, staggering blindly. Face after face rises before him, but not the one he's looking for.

"Hawke!" he shouts.

The lad at his feet startles at the sound of his name and scurries up, blinking in the darkness. "Mmph, what?" he mumbles.

"Not you," Anders grouses. "Marian!" he bellows her name again. He counts two extra but there are three Grey Wardens, they'd stumbled upon them a few nights back. Someone is missing and his stomach twists with the thought of it being her.

His shouting rouses the rest of the group and Carver darts awkwardly to his feet, swaying into Anders. "My sister?"

Anders' eyes fall on every crook and crevice, he peers behind every boulder, and upturns their entire camp. Isabela he finds crumpled in a darkened, hidden corner of their camp, bruised and bleeding but otherwise unharmed. Alistair is next to Cousland and when the two lock gazes, they sneer and break apart. Anders doesn't care though. Varric is sprawled by the fire and Anders has to cast a spell to fix the swollen mass that is his face. As for Dread, the hound he finds near the bottom of the roads, barely alive. He swoops down on the beast, his fingers running through the matted fur as he heals the injuries. The most severe of them all - which makes Anders blood run cold.

From the hound's side, his eyes lift, inspecting the path. Nowhere is Hawke to be found.

A warm wetness lashes against his hand and he turns his gaze down onto Dread. He whines so softly, his head butting under the mage's arm as though seeking comfort. Anders feels much the same way. He doesn't know what to do! If Marian isn't here, there's only one answer. And the Deep Roads are a network of twisting paths, each and every one with offshoots that can take someone in an entirely different direction. How are they to track her? And what in the Maker's name happened?

He remembers... his stomach twisting and all five Wardens leaping to their feet as one. Flashing weapons, shouts, grunts, and shrieks. And beneath it all, the carrion scent he recognizes as darkspawn.

He pushes back to his feet, his hand still resting upon the mabari's back. He peers back over his shoulder to find the boulder that had struck him in the back. And here… he drops his eyes back down to Dread. This is where Hawke was struck. The sight of her crumpling as though she was nothing more than dead weight weighs heavily on him. He'd been overrun and… _Justice!_

_I kept you safe_, the spirit whispers through his mind. Anders can feel his exhaustion. Kept him safe, but what about Hawke?

_I… could not - she was lost to us. I kept you alive. _Anders can feel the heavy lay of guilt in the spirit's thoughts. Regardless of his personal feelings in regard to Hawke, he knows that Justice would not abandon her. The situation had been quite grave.

Anders' head falls forward, a groan tumbling from his lips. "Tell me you can track her," he begs the hound whose head drops in an affirmation.

Relief loosens his muscles and he spins back, barking orders at the remaining companions. The five Wardens share a silent look, one that stops Anders' heart dead in his chest. They are all quite learned in the reasons the darkspawn would abduct a woman. Isabela had been lucky that she was hidden.

Anders feels sick, an acrid bile burning a path as it climbs his throat. If those blighted creatures so much as touch a hair on her head -

But it isn't only _that _he has to worry about. They all know the longer it takes to find her, the greater the chances that she'll fall to the taint. Contact with these creatures usually ends in such a way.

His jaw sets, the silent communication not lost on Varric and Isabela - who for once looks absolutely sick. Hawke is her friend. Likely her only one. Just as she is for Anders. It seems the two finally have a commonality between them.

"Move out," Anders growls, pointing Dread forward.

"Anders," Cousland speaks up. "As much as I hate to say it... It's likely that Hawke is-"

A feathered arm slams into the other Warden's neck. They're pitted against the wall before Anders even realizes what he's done. Cousland's sentence hangs unspoken and Anders' rage calls upon the spirit once more. Justice rises from the depths, their skin splitting with an azure glow that lights up the roads.

"She will not be abandoned by us!" Justice's words and voice, but Anders' thoughts.

He hears scrambling from behind them and hands tug at his shoulders, but Justice is immovable. Smoke lifts from his eyes, drawn toward the ceiling like a ribbon. And the Warden held beneath the press of his arm pales at the sight of it.

"You may leave if you feel this task beneath you," Justice continues. "But I will not turn away from this."

And then he shoves off him, spinning back to stare down at Dread. The hound's lips have drawn back, his nose wrinkling as he snarls, and not at Justice but Cousland.

"I'm going with you," Isabela practically runs to his side, Varric close behind her. Even Alistair shows no hesitation.

Carver glances back at his commander but he falls at Anders' side as well. "This is my sister," he tells Cousland. "I cannot abandon her."

Nathaniel and Cousland share a pained grimace but finally fall in as well, though quite a bit more cautious of Anders now. He never told Cousland about his merge with Justice. Painfully obvious now though as he leads them through the roads, the blue glow of his skin lighting their way.

-.-

_Six Days Earlier_

Anders leads them best he can through the Roads. The good news is that they found a second exit out of the room Bertrand trapped them like animals within. The bad news, it led in an entirely different direction. Or so his gut keeps telling him. There really isn't much to go by - darkness, stone, and shadows. And the map he carries is not of the roads themselves but the entrances.

Only the Maker knows how long they've been walking. In the darkness, time becomes fluid, one moment flooding over the next. There is simply no way to gauge time without the sun. They stop when they tire which is growing much more frequent due to the unimpressed snarls coming from their stomachs. Alistair's and Anders' are the worst - Grey Warden appetites going unabated.

He points out a small outcrop - a ring of boulders that should provide them decent cover while they rest. Their sighs rise in unison, which does make him smile, and they slump off in that direction. Hawke and Isabela practically collapse at the same time and decide to use another to rest against.

Alistair silently builds the ring of stones and grabs what little amount of kindle he can find, stuffing it in the pit and Anders lights it with a quick flick of his wrist. He's not sure how long it's been since anyone's spoken. They've crossed three roads surely, since a word was last uttered. He can't even remember what that word had been.

He shares a single glance with Alistair - both silently agreeing to put aside whatever angst lies between them to work together. They both are aware of the dangerous situation they've stumbled into. The Deep Roads are not meant to be traversed so willingly. Countless explorers have fallen to these depths, never to be heard from again. It is not simply darkspawn one need worry about down here.

"Well, how about a game of Diamondback?" Varric murmurs, rifling out a pack of cards from his small pack. They all have one but no one thought to pack food, knowing the hirelings carried it all.

Anders casts a side-long glance to Hawke. Her mouth tugs faintly at the corners and she reaches forward to swoop up the hand dealt to her. Of course she would. And he smiles at the resilience she shows, even knowing how much she fears the darkspawn.

"You guys go ahead," he states when a group of eyes swing up to him, more than one with quirked brows. "I'm going to scout around, make sure there's nothing nearby."

He turns without waiting for the response and starts in on the left. He only makes it a few steps when the soft patter of footfall rises behind him. He knows it isn't darkspawn, and no blight spider can walk so quietly. So he turns, walking backwards, as he silently watches Hawke approach him.

"No one goes anywhere alone," she tells him in an utterly exhausted voice.

Such shadows beneath her eyes. He knows she hasn't slept well since entering these pits - well except for that one night that he is fairly confident the dead couldn't have woken her. If that is what it takes... he _could _offer the same thing tonight. His head cocks as he imagines her asleep in his arms again. Yes, he is very much in trouble with this one. Even her tussled hair he finds adorable. It's clear she isn't use to it hanging so low on her back and chuckling, he reaches out and brushes the ensnared ropes back from her cheek. Her feet still, those piercing eyes swinging up to him once more.

Her teeth nip down on her lower lip, pulling gently on it and his mouth dries. Her head tilts, eyes darting back over her shoulder as though ensuring they are alone. When she turns back to him, there's a new light to her eyes. One that startles him. His eyes go wide when she takes three determined steps toward him, the crystal eyes framed by the thick sweep of her dark lashes. Her heavy fringe brushes over her brow and for a moment, he's tempted to move it away but the way she watches him... he's pitted to that very spot.

"You have quite the mood swings," she finally states, eventually stepping around him and continuing deeper into the roads.

Anders blinks, unsure of what that means, before jogging to catch up with her. "What?"

She watches him from the side, a curious look to her face. "That day, in the forest, why did you kiss me?"

His chest hitches and he has to force himself to swallow. "You want to talk about this here, _now_?"

She shrugs. "Isabela told me we need to. She says this pussyfooting around one another is annoying her. I was told to figure our shit out before she does it for us."

He startles at her language. Hawke never uses so profanity - clearly it came from the pirate. But ah, that's what the glance back for was about. "So... wait, what?" He blinks again, unsure of what Isabela means by her doing it for them. "This doesn't feel like the right time to-"

"We're likely going to die down here anyways," she admits in a deadpan voice with a wretched shrug. "Might as well entertain ourselves for the small amount of time we have left."

He doesn't like the taste of these words and his fingers tighten into right fists. "Hawke-"

"Anders, just answer the question," she sighs, peering down the next corridor.

He's never seen her quite like this. And it makes him ill to think it's all because she expects to die. Wasn't he just thinking about the perilous position they've found themselves in? He and Alistair are quite aware of the danger they are in, why wouldn't Hawke be just as aware?

"I was a different man then," he tells her before shaking his head. "I was a _boy_, then. I knew very little of the world beyond the tower. Women like you - I'd never been granted the pleasure of speaking with one, let alone... _tasting _one." He grimaces, that did not come out right, but she doesn't seem offended.

"So it was a game," she interprets. "It didn't matter that it was me. I was just some girl that had risked her life to save you."

He swallows, suddenly afraid how this conversation could go. He should tell her how he thought about that kiss every night, but his words fall silent on his lips.

She takes his silence as confirmation of what he said. "And the masquerade ball? Did you kiss me there simply because Isabela was selling my favors?"

_Oh, Maker,_ what a dangerous question. And is that what she _really _thinks? He already confessed it meant something to him. Of course, she could be trying to figure out just _what _that something is. It isn't as though he's been forthcoming about his feelings. And apparently she wants a full confession - down here, in the Deep Roads.

"Hawke," he starts, watching her as she turns and slants against the nearest wall, staring at him with those true eyes. His lids fall closed and he lets the words spill from his lips. "I've never met anyone like you," he admits. "So willing to help people, so caring. Do you know how many people would help an apostate mage escape the templars?" He pinches his brow and angles his face toward the ground. "It's true that I didn't think we'd ever meet again, but I gave it _so _much thought. And then to come to Kirkwall, to find _you _of all people - to find out I'd been traveling with your brother," he laughs. "What are the odds of such a thing happening? And here you're even truer and possessed by a loyalty many can't even touch upon." His words are running away from him, but he can't stop them. "The ball," his eyes finally open and this time he pins her to the spot. "Never have I seen a woman so enchanting and _beautiful_," he shakes his head at the memory, it still robs him of breath. "When I figured out it was you, there was little shock, simply amazement. I kissed you... because I wanted you."

Her throat works as she struggles to swallow, he can see it in her face. "Past tense," she whispers and for once, he _is_ shocked by the depth of pain to her force.

Not once has he imagined that she could _possibly _want him; an apostate abomination on the run from the templars and Grey Wardens.

"No," he whispers, locking gazes with her. "Want you. Still. This very moment," he admits.

She pushes off the rock, her pace slow as she makes her way toward him.

"But I can't," he admits, shoulders slumping with disappointment. "You don't know the man I am now. And I _will _hurt you. Hawke, I can't-"

His words are swallowed by the press of her lips over his. Startled, his eyes dart to hers before his lids lower and he gives in. He is, after all, a selfish man. He makes a small and broken sound into her mouth, hands snagging against her waist and spilling her against the rock outcrop next to him. He _shouldn't_. He should walk away right now, once and for all. Yet, for all the times he's said that to himself, he keeps finding his way back to her.

She slowly draws back, gazing up at him through that thick fringe. _Oh Maker_, she's so close, he can feel her breath upon his cheek in a perfumed air. It's… intoxicating. "You won't hurt me," she whispers before winding those arms like a cage around his neck. But the last thing he feels is trapped.

"You can't know that."

"I know you," she murmurs, fingers splaying through his hair. His eyes close, enjoying the feel of her touch. "You're incapable of hurting someone."

"Then you don't know me very well, sweetheart," he grumbles, dropping down and snagging her mouth in another kiss. His fingers trace the small swell of her hips, tracing the edge of her jerkin. It wouldn't take much at all, for his fingers to loosen the buttons holding her jerkin together. Without another thought, they creep up her length and slowly make work of them. With the pop of each one opening, his kiss grows more passionate. He feeds at her mouth, tongue sweeping through her mouth. His heart startles the moment her fingers slide down, gently working at the belt looped over his waist.

"Wait," he gasps as he tears back from her. "Hawke…" Her fingers pause and she turns those eyes up to him, waiting. He started it, he knows he did. "Not down here…" he tells her. Especially not if it really is her first time.

She swallows, her eyes darting around the roads. "We're alone, Anders."

"That's not what I mean," and he groans. How is it that he's the one stopping this?

Her fingers fall to that belt again and the two pieces fall apart. _Andraste's knickers.._.

"Anders, the chances of us making it out of here-"

"Don't."

"-are slim," she finishes. "And I want…" Her eyes slide away and she huffs a breath before turning back to him, resolution set into her face. "You."

He groans and drops over her, covering her with his body. How can he deny her? Not when he wants her so badly. He makes quick work of the buttons to her jerkin, sliding it off her shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. His belts unclasp just as quickly - his jacket and pauldron falling to the same pile as hers. He's always hated armor, and he's reminded of why as he starts to remove her cuisses. So many pieces and he doesn't have the patience for it, not after so many years of envisioning this. Stripped of half of her armor, his hands curve under her rear and he jerks her off her feet, pressing her firmly against the rock as he returns to his ministrations, lips ghosting over her jaw and down her neck.

She makes the gentlest sound, but it reaches through him and tightens something in his groin. Those legs lock around him and she hovers over him, her mouth finding the ridge of his ear, tongue tracing it. Her hot breath splays over his neck and he groans, nuzzling aside the blouse to seek out those rounded mounds pressed against him.

"I think they went over there," a dusky voice sounds down the corridor.

"_Shit!_" Anders grumbles, his curse falling against her chest as he lowers her quickly to the ground.

The two scramble, though Hawke actually _giggles_ at the curses and complaints spilling from his lips. He could just _kill_ the pirate right now.

His jacket slides on so easily so he drops to a knee, strapping Hawke's cuisses back on as quickly as possibly as she works on the very many buttons lining her jerkin. They just barely have it all reattached when Alistair and Isabela round the corner.

"_There_ you are," Isabela says with a sly smirk. "We were beginning to wonder if the darkspawn snatched you up."

"Oh," Hawke chuckles breathlessly, turning a burning face away from the other two. "No, we were… just heading back actually. Nothing down this way."

For so long, Anders has known that Alistair is in love with Marian. Whether or not she's aware, he still doesn't know, nor does he feel the desire to ask. Either way, it's obvious how she avoids his attention, until finally she dares to look up, speared by the hurt stare awaiting her, burning brightly in the dark road. Even Anders can feel it and for once, he actually feels for the poor sod. His mouth is tight, a firm slash drawn across his face, displeasure knotting his brow. Unsure of what to say or do to help the situation, Anders shrugs when Hawke's gaze lifts to his. A proverbial triangle this is turning into, and with a sigh, Hawke slings her quiver and bow back over her shoulders. With a final nod, Alistair turns and begins to lead the way back, his silence likely far more injurious to her than any darkspawn attack. Isabela holds her ground, watching Anders as he forces himself to swallow past the lump forming in his throat. _Why _couldn't they just have waited for them to return?

Chuckling deeply, her gaze drops to his hips. "You missed one, lover-boy," she states before turning and following after Alistair.

Both Anders' and Hawke's gaze fall. And sure enough, he forgot to stitch together his lowest belt, the one that holds everything together.

"_Maker_, that's just what we need," he groans. But when he turns to Hawke, he catches the brightest grin from her. "What?"

"Nothing," she laughs. "I just… like seeing this side of you."

"What side?" he grins. "Half undressed? Because, sweetheart, I enjoyed that side of you too."

She blushes and he laughs before clasping her hand and dragging her after Isabela and Alistair, fumbling with his belt the whole way.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Don't hurt me! There's a method to my madness, I promise! As you can see there's a bit of a count down until we get back to the pivotal issue at hand. Thank you so, so, so much to everyone! I'm so happy you're all enjoying this story. Your reviews make me so happy :D So *hands out cyber cookies - whatever flavour you like :D* We have so much goodiness coming up, for instance, the Grey Wardens should be arriving soon :) (Oh and so no one actually hurts me, don't worry, there aren't actually 3 more chaps until we return to the broodmother, I wouldn't do that to you.)_

_As per normal, don't forget to lemme know what you think :) My fix is quite demanding and dependant upon all you._

_Ah yes, and for any that are interested. Eve Hawke, The Original Frizzi, and I are working on a collaboration piece on Eve Hawke's page. It's called "A Twist of Fate" and it is a retelling of the blight with an AU twist :D Ready for it? Alistair isn't a Grey Warden, he's a prince, raised along with his brother! There's some other twists do, hence the title, but I don't wanna give all the awesomesauceness away up front. So if you're interested, feel free to take a looky loo! _

* * *

Chapter 17

Hawke

_Four days earlier_

The skittering of nails against the stone catches Hawke's attention. Her chin lifts, eyes immediately set to the nearby encompassing shadows. She catches sight of Anders lifting his hand, a blue glow molding to his fingers.

"Wait," she whispers, her fingers falling gently upon his arm. "What are they?"

"Deepstalkers," he tells her. "Bothersome creatures."

He means to frighten them off again with whatever spell it is flowing over his hand.

Hawke's fingers push firmly against his arm, silently signaling for him to hold. "Are they dangerous?" He slants a look her way and she shrugs. "I mean more dangerous than anything else down here."

"No," he admits. "I suppose not. They're predators, certainly, but they're no more dangerous than the spiders and darkspawn."

Her mouth tugs at the corners and her fingers ensnare Fear. "Varric, my dwarven companion, how would you feel about a bet?"

An entire company of eyes lift to her, many shadowed with exhaustion and hunger. There's hardly even a response from Varric and Hawke grimaces at the pull to his lips.

"Oh, come now," she taunts him, trying to rouse him from this funk. Not only is he starving but what happened between him and Bertrand has been weighing on his shoulders since that day - whenever that day was. She bounces on the balls of her feet, hoping to rouse his interest with a mischievous grin. "I'll make it worth your while, I promise."

His furry brow arches up, those thick lips finally rising. "How?"

Hawke falls silent once more. She hadn't thought of the result, only the purpose. "A hunting game. Fear against Bianca. How many deepstalkers can she handle? She doesn't seem particularly well designed to handle... multiple targets."

"Don't be trash talking my baby," he purrs, curving over her protectively.

Hawke settles back against her heels - like leading prey to the trap. "I'll bet Bianca wants to play."

"What's the reward?"

Her mouth pulls up further. "Food," is all she says before smacking her thigh to catch Dread's attention. He's likely just as hungry as the rest but he bounds to his feet as though he possesses an endless supply of energy and hops toward her. His entire hindquarter shakes under the strain, his little stub of a tail twitching mercilessly. So happy just to be included.

Laughter spills from Hawke's lips and she stoops over at the waist, her hands ruffling into his fur. The two touch noses, as they've done since the day her father brought him through their front doors. He was the last thing her father had ever been able to give her. Just as every other time, her cheek is assaulted as he paints a line up her face, that warm tongue swiping her skin.

"Hawke... I'm not-"

"We need food, Anders," Hawke whispers, slowly straightening and turning toward the shadows.

"I just don't know if it's wise. Anything down here can pass the taint along."

"Don't see that it makes much of a difference," she laughs bitterly. "We can either die of the taint, or die of starvation. Which would you prefer?"

"Well, to be honest-"

Feeling brave, she stretches onto her tiptoes and steals his mouth in a brisk kiss. He isn't the only one to startle and it's Isabela's laughter that chases her down the road.

"Wait! You've got to be _shitting_ me!" Varric shouts as he chases after her. "Hawke! Wait! When did this happen?"

"Keep up if you want to win the challenge!" she calls back over her shoulder. "I'm not waiting for you."

Someone grunts something but Hawke isn't listening as she takes the next corner and the next with Fear held loosely between her fingers. The faint scrabbling echoes down the path along with a low hiss that she's never noticed. Certainly more than a few of these creatures and her stomach rumbles with the promise of meat about to fill it.

She lifts her bow, drawing the string back to her mouth and holds. She can't _see _them, not in the darkness, but she can _hear _them and she hopes that's enough.

"Hawke!"

She winces, releasing the arrow the moment the beasts startle and scatter. It wobbles off the stone corridor and clatters to the ground. So close! Her mouth is already watering. Damn that voided dwarf!

"Varric," she hisses when two shadows round the corner. Relief flashes through Anders' eyes and she sighs, jutting out her hip. "This is a _competition_," she reminds them, rolling her eyes delicately.

"Remember the rules," Anders murmurs, quirking a brow at her. "No wandering the deep roads without a Warden present."

She shifts, brushing the heavy fringe back from her eye. Even Dread huffs, his head bumping against her thigh. "Fine, fine. But if you ruin my chances of winning, there will be trouble, hear me mage?" she teases gently, lifting her own brows in challenge.

"Is that so," he chuckles. "And what if I just happen to let a few energy bolts slip out and scare the critters away before you or Varric can nick them?"

She drops a single brow, a quizzical look twisting her face. His lips spread with that same challenge just as his fingers spark with a crackling energy that sets her hair up.

"You wouldn't," she growls, though a playful tug on her lips exposes the gentle smile.

"Wouldn't I?"

"Ugh, you two are making me sick," Varric chimes in. "Now, Blondie, Hawke and I have a score to settle. She shamed my sweet Bianca. So I'm going to ruin Fear's good name. You can either tag along or remain behind, but I'm going."

"So am I," Hawke counters his offer, lifting a shoulder towards the dwarf.

"Of course I'm coming," Anders scoffs. "You two wandering the deep roads alone is enough of a nightmare, thank you."

"Ya, ya, ya," Hawke whispers before sinking to her knees and tugging on Dread's lightly perked ear.

"What are you doing?" Varric demands, those dwarven eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Hawke's lips begin to blur as she whispers instructions to her mabari. His tail flicks in response, his nose butting under her chin when she shifts back. He offers her a low, affectionate huff before butting his head against her and darting down the roads.

"What is this?" Varric questions. "No cheating allowed!"

She rises and grins at her friend. "It isn't cheating. I just told him to go for a walk. The deal stands. How many can Bianca and Fear take out? Any killed by Dread are null."

Even Anders watches her closely, but with a tug on her mouth, she turns and vanishes into the thickly veiled shadows.

"Hawke!" Anders hisses, the dark tone to his voice evident of his sudden mood swing.

"Do you want to eat or not?" she calls back, watching with amusement as his head whips around, trying to pinpoint her.

"Yes," he grunts.

"Then stop scaring away the prey!" she mocks. "If you can keep up, have at it. But you better walk silently," which she knows he won't be able to do.

Aware that he won't stop shouting unless he's within proximity, Hawke stretches out of the shadow, fingers yanking around the collar of his jacket before wrenching him in with her.

He stumbles into her, hands encircling her waist as he tries to keep balance. A faint shiver rolls beneath her skin and she relishes in the feel of his touch.

"Wow," the word falls from his lips in an impassioned whisper.

Hawke doesn't speak, she simply follows his line of sight and nods. It is a pretty heady thing. Standing in the shadows is not like the light. She can always feel the darkness flowing over her as though it's a being of its own.

"Part of the challenge," she finally tells him, "is moving with the shadows." She directs his attention to their feet where it swells and ebbs around whatever faint light is provided by the roads. The shadow pulls on the fabric of their reality, drawing strength from the light while devouring it. "If you don't keep aware, they'll see you and then you're dead."

"Where did you learn to do this?" he whispers, his breath brushing against the back of her neck. "Isabela and Varric seem to hide in them but I can always see their outlines. You... become one with them."

A corner of her mouth lifts into a crooked grin. "There was a guard back home that took me under his wing to teach me all he knew. He saw something in me, I guess. He caught me sneaking into the tavern one night - I was hoping to find my father. He said I had talent -"

"But he _caught_ you," Anders chuckles softly.

"Mmm, yes. But he hadn't the four other times I'd successfully snuck in. Or the Chantry, the neighbor's house, the-"

"Alright, I get it. So you were a natural sneak."

She nods, curving forward just a smidge to peer down the roads. Varric is nowhere to be seen and for a moment, her heart lurches at the thought of him wandering into something dangerous.

"I always was. There wasn't any situation I couldn't get Carver and I out of. Well, I'm sure there were a few, but anyways - he put two daggers into my hands and I never stopped. My mother was horrified," she laughs at the memory of her indignant mother, scolding the poor guard for ruining her eldest daughter. "For what man would want to marry me now?" she scoffs.

"I bet all of them," Anders muses, his fingers lifting to brush the hair away from her cheek.

"Oh, no. My mother was correct. I scared the ones younger than me and frustrated those older than me. I would intrigue them at first and then the novelty would wear off, and -" her voice wavers, her eyes dropping to stare at her boots when a sudden wave of pain strikes close to her heart.

"And what?" he asks so softly.

"And then they'd see Bethany," she whispers. "With hair as dark as mine but long and flowing. And those warm eyes, so caring and honest. They'd see her nimble fingers and smooth skin, and they'd fall head over heels."

A bitter smile crosses Hawke's lips. It has nothing to do with the attention her sister wrought - Hawke had always been grateful for that - and everything to do with how much she misses her.

"I wish I could have met her," Anders sighs. He shifts at her back, his fingers tracing the ridge of her jerkin. How quickly her thoughts flutter away, lost to his touch. Alone with him, here, she allows herself to settle against him, drawing his arms securely around her waist. "Hawke-"

"What?" she murmurs. "We're alone."

His breath brushes down her neck, his nose grazing against the length of her ear. _Maker_, how her stomach twists with sensations. His lips fall against the curve of her neck, landing just above that spot where she can feel her pulse thumping under her skin. Her heart skips about and she sinks into his embrace.

"What about the competition?" his lips ghost across her ear, teeth nibbling gently at the lobe.

Her knees tremble and she has to remind herself how to breath. "What competition?"

"I'll take that as a compliment." His chuckle is so deep. "But you would never forgive me if I ruined this for you."

"Mmm," she hums, resting her head against his shoulder and tilting her chin back to meet his eyes -

She's never seen a man's gaze so dark before, so hungry, so _predatory_. On beasts, yes, but never men. Yet, she isn't afraid. There's _nothing_ in this world she desires more than to simply_ fall into him _and let him do everything his eyes promise. The reality that they are stranded in the deep roads vanishes, the possibility that they will, in fact, die before finding their way out means little - all that matters is she is here with him, now.

The air between them suddenly thickens and before either of them can breath, smoke curls from Anders' eyes and his skin cracks and floods with the beryl glow of the fade. The staff strapped to his back gleams with a silver mist and his jacket begins to float in a nonexistent breeze. She's aware of the shadows retreating from them, unable to remain within the presence of his limpid light.

Those arms that held her so securely not seconds ago release her and she stumbles, flinching when a searing hand curves against the pale column of her throat, guiding her back against the wall.

"Anders?" she whispers.

There's no pressure to those fingers, they simply lay there. But the promise of danger hovers in the distance between them. She finally lifts her gaze to his, searching the endless flood of azure to find his brandy eyes. He remains silent, only his shoulders shifting with his every breath.

"Justice?" she dares whisper the spirit's name, ignorant to which of them she actually faces. The only other time she's seen Anders in such a state, he'd told her it was because his emotions had gotten the best of him. His anger had become too much and Justice stepped in. Had she angered him somehow? Or was this something much more primitive?

She's not afraid, not the way he expects her to be. Whoever it is she faces, she trusts that neither of them would hurt her. She can scent the sweet, intoxicating air of the fade, as though someone's left a window open between the two realms. And just beneath it comes a faint tinkling chime that calls to her. She can admit, at least silently, that it's beautiful. The power he wields may be disconcerting, but there's a wild grace in the way he carries it.

And then it's gone. The power leaks from his skin in a flash of energy and he staggers forward, his hands framing her shoulders, head bowed toward the ground. Hawke gulps down a lungful of air, peering through the curtain of fair hair sliding before his face to find _him_.

He startles when her fingers curl over his cheeks, the warm eyes she'd searched for earlier flashing up to hers.

"Hawke," he chokes, his breath washing over her face. "I-I-"

She darts forward, slanting her mouth over his. She expects him to draw back, preaching again about the dangers of being near him. So she's rather dazed when instead his hands curve over her hips and drive her back into the wall, his body covering hers not a moment later. His kiss is not gentle, nor are the hands that clutch at her, yet she shivers all the same. His teeth drag over her lower lip, parting them before his tongue sweeps within, firmly tangling with hers. Her fingers brush over his cheek and snarl within his hair, holding him close, simply trying to ride it out without falling.

He groans into her mouth, his weight falling against her, driving her back against the stone. A pained gasp falls from her lips and the moment shatters, like all moments do.

Anders pitches back, his hand held between them when he gives her his back. His other rises to cup his head and he shakes his head about, likely in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

"Hawke-" he chokes. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't-"

"Hey," she whispers, lifting her hand and lacing her fingers through his. He tries to slide away from her again, but she grasps it instead, tugging him back over to her. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"Justice-"

"Didn't do anything," she tells him. "He was here for a second and gone the next."

"But next time-"

"Next time, schmext time," she teases him, silently cheering when she catches the barest flick of his lips. "Don't worry so much," she jests. "You'll get lines. And we can't have everyone's favorite mage walking about with wrinkles, now can we?"

His laugh is quite bitter and it hurts her heart to hear it. "I'm nobody's favorite mage."

She nibbles on her lower lip, rolling her next words around in her mouth, afraid of his reaction, but she decides to go for it. "You're _my_ favorite mage. And that's all that matters, right?"

His head swings up, an unspoken thought ghosting over his face, gone before she could even try to interpret that. "Hawke-"

She darts up to her tiptoes and brushes another kiss just beneath his jaw. "Just watch me win the competition," she tells him, finally remembering that there is actually a purpose to their presence here.

And sure enough, not seconds later, a shadow comes streaking toward them in the shape of her loyal hound. Perfect timing, as per usual.

His paws press onto the deepstalker's heels, herding them toward Hawke. It's the first time she's actually seen the creatures and for a moment, she falls still, the little melodrama between her and Anders quickly forgotten at the sight of them. Like lizards, almost, with the maw of a large worm. A shiver overcomes her and this time it has nothing to do with the incensed mage at her back and everything to do with these beasts streaking her way.

She lifts Fear and notches the string. Only a few more steps needed. Dread's teeth snap at the air by their long tails, guiding them further and further ahead. And once within range, she lets loose a quick percussion of arrows. The only problem is that the moment one of _her_ arrows gets close, the beast falls, already pitted through by another.

When none remain, Hawke hesitates and lowers her bow. She knows those arrows and cursing under her breath she steps out of the shadow and stalks forward. Bianca's nose hovers just beyond the stone, around a nearby corner.

"You little-" she curses. "That's cheating!"

Varric bursts into laughter. "Hey, you were planning on doing the same thing. It's not my fault Bianca is a little quicker on the trigger than Fear. What was the deal, Hawke? Whoever's bow took the most out? Well," he stalks closer to the pile of deepstalkers slumped against the stone. "I count six of mine and... oh, only two are yours."

Hawke's teeth clamp down onto her lip. The little _sneak!_ He had _known_ exactly what her plan was and he swept her victory out from beneath her like a rug. How could she _lose_? She _never_ loses!

"Maybe if you and Blondie here hadn't become so... _distracted_-" her cheeks flush and she drops her gaze down to the pile of corpses. "You might have gotten a few off before me. So Queen Rogue, does that make me King Rogue?" Varric laughs as he stoops over and starts ripping his arrows out of the flesh of the deepstalkers.

"Varric," she sighs. "You can be my king whenever you want."

His own laugh echoes off the walls. "Oh, I don't know. You may not care, but I think someone else does."

A startled laugh spills from her lips. She has to admit, she's not even irritated about the loss. Because either way, their stomachs are going to be full tonight and that will lift everyone's moods significantly.

Glancing over her shoulder at the sulking mage, she just hopes it works.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Whew, this chapter got away from me a little bit, but that's okay :) Guess what? This is the last chapter before the broodmother, so fear not, dear readers. That will be dealt with next chap :) _

_Enjoy, and don't forget to let me know what you think._

_Huge thanks to Eve Hawke for helping play out some of the scenes below. :D_

* * *

Chapter 18

-Hawke-

_Two Days Earlier_

It feels... _never ending_.

Always more tunnels, more walking, more... _darkness_. A day ago, or what she guesses to be a day ago, they stumbled into a much more dangerous place than they'd been. Someone had raised the question of going back the way they came - but it was calmly pointed out that they'd come from that way. And if they want out, this is the only route.

The _only _route.

It's the deep roads and the Wardens claim this is the only way. This path that _reeks _of decay and death. This path that is overrun by something black that stretches over the walls and sweeps along the floor. This path that, with every step, promises death. She feels it, crawling under her skin, and twisting inside. Darkspawn corruption, Anders tells her. He doesn't explain further and she's thankful. The Wardens believe this to be the right channel. Hawke believes this to be their end. There's too much hovering over them for it not to be.

They are both so quiet - always with the sharpened glances and the silent hand signals. What little comaraderie they may have felt before is gone. And Isabela, Varric, and Hawke feel it like a knife in their gut, twisting and wrenching about.

She's just so tired. Every step is another battle, like wading through quicksand, the stone constantly pulling at her. Would it really be so bad to just sit down and rest a little more?

It's been two days since they ate last - those deepstalkers had put them in a festive move and they celebrated with a friendly round of Diamondback, laughing over how Aveline and Fenris are likely doing the same at right that moment. It began funny until Hawke really started to think about it. At that exact minute, Fenris and Aveline could be sitting at their table, laughing - though, perhaps the air is getting to her because Fenris does not laugh - playing games, and speaking of their days. It makes her... _homesick_. Her mother is likely worried sick about her by now. They've probably been gone much longer than they intended.

That night, sorrow and despair settled over her heart and she slowly descended into a funk that is quite difficult to climb out of. The worst part is that she feels no desire to unwind the darkness webbing over her mind.

Her hand settles against Dread's neck and the poor beast glances up with a soft whine. So quiet, it startles the rest of the group. Isabela casts a pouty glare in her direction, but it goes unanswered.

They continue through the stone roads.

What she would give for a breath of fresh air - to feel the wind ghost along her skin, or taste the cool breeze. Just a single ray of sunlight, or the chilled rain, wetting her face, all the little things people take for granted. She longs to see the sky, burning like a heated opal as the sun drops below the horizon, to count the stars painted within that sheet of blackness, to -

She swallows, casting her eyes back down onto the cobbled path, teeming with rubble and dust and death. Bones frame the walls, strewn among the deposits. The brackish tang of blood hovers among the rock, like a cloud hanging above them. And it will not let up, not without the air needed to dilute the fetid stench.

The Wardens both step to the side and stop. "We'll rest here," Anders murmurs quietly, lidded eyes lifting to hers.

There's concern lit within, but she doesn't acknowledge it. She simply drops down next to Dread and tucks her head into his shoulder, her arms winding around his neck for balance. His chest rumbles beneath her, and a sound pours forth, akin to a growl but it's much too soft and gentle. When he tilts, resting his cheek upon her head, she very nearly bursts into tears. It's the knowledge that they aren't alone that tamps it back. She can't remember a single time where she's sobbed in front of someone. And she isn't about to start.

Her eyes droop heavily and Dread slowly lowers to the tainted ground, taking her with him. His body curls around hers, his head raised above just enough to keep watch. Over against the wall, is Anders, ever watchful. With them guarding, she can sleep. She let's her eyes close for the first time since the night they dined on deepstalker. She prays for dreams of grassy knolls and flowing rivers. But all that finds her is more darkness.

-.-

A gentle brush against her cheek rouses her. She shakes off the fog of sleep, eyes fluttering open to find not Anders, but Alistair hovering over her. His lips tug into a gentle smile and he pulls a seat up next to her. Dread huffs under his breath before lowering his head back to her legs, determined to ignore this disruption.

"Alistair," she mumbles. "Is something -"

He cuts off her words with a small shake of his head. "No. I just wanted to check on you."

She blinks and pushes up from the nook Dread provided. "Check on me, why?"

Everyone else is asleep. Isabela and Varric have found a small boulder to share and Anders sits against the wall, his head dropping against his shoulder. There's a pinch to his face that startles her, and his lips are pressed in a hard, firm line. At his side, his hands clench into tight fists, and with every third breath, fire swells over his fingers, light casting over the rocks from the flickering flames.

"What -"

"Nightmares - or _blightmares_ as Carver and I used to call them," Alistair offers in a low voice. "They're bad enough on the surface, but underground, in the very place the wretched spawn writhe, they're brutal."

She scrambles to her hands and knees, with the intent to wake him, but Alistair's hands guide her back down.

"We can't avoid them happening and while he may be locked in a nightmare, he's still resting and we need that."

She slants a look over at him, nibbling on her lower lip. "And you've been suffering the same thing?"

His head dips in an affirmative response, his own gaze landing on the tense mage pressed against the wall.

Hawke can't imagine what it is they see. It must surely be horrid enough that Anders calls on his magic subconsciously. "What... what do you see?" she whispers.

Alistair whips his head back around as though this question surprises him. "All that you see," he tells her. "Death, darkness, hopelessness, only ours comes in the form of the spawn. The Wardens offer their entire lives as servitude to the Order. We do not ever rest, truly sleep, or _ever _find a way free of the plague they bring upon the world. In our waking worlds, we hunt and destroy them. Even our dreams fall victim to the wretched creatures. Nothing is sacred among the Grey Wardens. We live and breathe them just as they do their old gods. An endless circle and it will never end. Not until the last spawn is run through by our blades, the last archdemon strung up for the world to see. Then... then we will rest."

Hawke's mouth dries and her eyes flick between the two men. The time when she desired to join their order feels like a lifetime ago. To think of Carver, suffering as they do, clamps her throat shut in horror. Her little brother...

"But I didn't wake you to speak of darkspawn," he murmurs. "I just wanted to make sure you're alright. You've been quiet the past couple days. Are you feeling ill?"

Ill? She meets his earnest gaze, remembering another time when he looked at her in such a way - a different life then, under the moon, surrounded by her trees. What she would give to go back to such a time. She misses the feel of life beneath her toes, longs to spire the trees as she used to as a child, cling to the branches and ride on the breeze...

"Homesick," she whispers. "But not physically sick, no."

He nods. "Understandable. My first time down here, I remember desiring nothing more than to scream at the top of my lungs. It does not get better with time."

"No," she agrees. "It gets worse."

They drift into a silence, the only sound that of rubble crumbling in the distance. Hawke debates a little more rest when Alistair speaks up once more, his tone quite a bit more grave than previously.

"He… isn't right for you," he murmurs.

Hawke's head whips around to him, her hooded eyes now wide. "What?" She knows who he is speaking of.

"Men like him," Alistair sighs. "They put their own personal desires first. They're incapable of caring for another, or at least as they should. He has a personal vendetta, against the Chantry, the templars, the world. He'll only hurt you."

Hawke's brows snap down, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "I don't see -"

His bitter laugh chokes her and she falls silent. "They never see. I offered this advice to another, one of my blight companions. She didn't see it, either. Cousland strung her along, day after day, proclaiming that he loved her and would do anything for her. But when the time came, he dropped her for Anora - because with Anora came the promise of power and the throne. He would be her consort, and my friend… well she was left to the shadows, trying to pick up the shattered pieces of her life. I didn't just leave because I was forced to by Anora. I left because Cousland is a blighted prick. He saw no means of compromise and the things he did…"

His eyes droop with sadness, the gentle hazel darkening with an unspoken emotion. Hawke never particularly cared for Cousland. He may have saved her life atop that bridge, but she still remembers the hard lines to his face and the shadowed eyes.

"I stayed in Ferelden, hidden, long enough to help Leliana find some semblance of normality. But he destroyed her, Hawke. And Anders… he'll do the same if you let him."

A shadow sweeps over them and Hawke's head snaps up to find a very tall, and very _angry_ mage staring down on them. Her stomach drops and she staggers to her feet, her palm pressing against his the curve of his chest, fingers twining through the soft feathers. The scrape of Alistair's armor is not far behind as he drags himself up as well.

"So, templar, you think you know me?" Anders demands in a voice harsher than the environment they are trapped within.

_Oh, Maker_, _this is not going to go well._ "Anders… maybe-" Hawke whispers.

"You -"

"You know _nothing_ of me!" Anders shouts, interrupting whatever Alistair had meant to say. His voice echoes off the stonework, startling Isabela, Varric, and Dread awake. All three leap as one to their feet, blinking and staring as they try to push away the haze of sleep clouding them.

A strange sound spills from Alistair's lips, a slight choke mingling with a laugh. "I know you're dangerous. I know you have a volatile spirit controlling your actions and thoughts. Most importantly, I know that you are going to hurt Hawke, just like Cousland hurt Leliana. Beyond that, what else is there?"

Anders steals a step closer, his hand sweeping out to punctuate his words. "I am _NOTHING_ like that bastard."

"Uh… Hawke?" Varric murmurs at her back.

She slants a glance back over her shoulder, her teeth laying into her lower lip.

"Tell that to _her_," Alistair's voice drags her back to the fight at hand, his chin jerking toward Hawke.

"Where do you get off -" Anders snarls, his feet carrying him forward until he and Alistair are practically nose-to-nose with one another. She should have guessed something like this would occur. The two take their roles down here responsibly, but beyond that shared understanding, it's been dark glares and sharp words with one another.

"She deserves to have someone tell her the truth!" Alistair shouts, his finger jabbing so close to her face. Hawke bows back in time to save her eye from a swift poke.

"I've given nothing but the truth!"

Alistair's chin rises as a bark of mocking laughter spills from his lips. "Please, you can't even tell yourself the truth! Does the word 'abomination' mean anything to you? She deserves someone better."

Hawke's breath catches the moment a furious glow coalesces around Anders' fingers. "And you think that's you?"

"Yes, I do," Alistair states without even the barest of flinches.

"Oh, _so_ righteous. _So _responsible," Anders growls. "Tell me, which part of leaving the Grey Wardens and abandoning Ferelden inspired this little speech about truth and honor?"

Alistair's cheeks redden and his eyes slit, the hazel darkening to liquid topaz. "I'm not the only one that left! You've been running your whole life!"

Hawke winces, her other hand pressing into Alistair's breastplate, fingers spanning across the griffon. "Alistair -"

"Why are you _listening_ to him?" Anders demands, turning rimmed eyes toward her. She can see the whisper of the fade hovering just behind them. His skin is flushed and small cracks appear, light leaking out. "You're defending _him_, now?"

Her mouth gapes and she whips her head between the two of them, startled to find them _both_ watching her as though they demand an answer as to whose side she is on. "I'm not defending-"

"She already knows the truth!" Alistair butts in. "She just needed to hear me say it."

"She doesn't need you for _anything_," Anders snarls. The heat from his fingers spreads up to his wrists, the blaze climbing him arms, threatening to consume him completely. Hawke steals a step back, afraid to touch the crackling flames.

"And she needs you?" he laughs bitterly. "To what? Give her nightmares?"

"_Bastard!_" Anders shouts.

Those flickering hands dart upward, a clenched fist slamming under Alistair's jaw. Hawke sucks in a sharp breath when his head snacks back and he staggers into the far wall. She means to leap back between them, put a stop this foolishness, when Alistair lunges forward, arms snagging around Anders' waist and spilling them both to the ground. For a moment, she can't tell them apart, rolling around in the rubble, tossing quick punches and angry words.

She shares a glance with Varric, wondering if it's best to simply let them work out their differences when a strange noise comes from above.

The sounds of their scuffle fade away the moment Hawke tips her head back. Empty eyes stare down at her, all eight of them.

"Varric," she whispers, hoping that her voice lifts enough to catch the dwarf's attention while not startling the beasts clinging to their webs above.

"I see them," he murmurs back. "Which one do you want?" referring to the brawling men at their feet.

"Anders," she states calmly, reaching for the dagger sheathed in her belt. She doubts she'll need it, but she was taught to always have something to defend herself with when diving into a fight. It isn't her battle, but breaking apart a mage and a templar set on killing each other can be quite dangerous.

"Alright, that leaves me with the virginal templar."

Hawke spares a moment to stare at the dwarf before returning to their newest task at hand. The two are growing tired, she can see it in their labored movements and weak punches, but neither seems willing to call it quits.

With a nod, Hawke stoops low and grabs at Anders the moment he steals the top. Her fingers snarl into the feathered paldron and she pulls with all her strength, swinging him off Alistair. The two rear back as one. Hawke's heel catches against the rubble and she's about to teeter when a flash of blue swells within the roads.

Her breath explodes from her lips as she's suddenly hurled into the far wall, struck by something invisible but as strong as an ogre. The back of her skull rocks against the stone and stars burst before her streaming eyes. How quickly silence falls upon them, a heavy weight compared to the ruckus that has attracted them new friends. She means to take a step forward, to point out the threat perched above them, but the moment her foot lifts, she slants and slides down the wall, her head dropping forward onto her knees.

"Hawke -" a strangled voice murmurs her name.

Warm hands cup her cheeks and tilt back. Her vision sways, the dull throb setting into the base of her skull.

"What did I say?" Alistair pants.

"Oh, shut up," Isabela growls. "In case you boys aren't done playing with yourselves, the three of us would like to point out to you that we are in serious trouble."

"What?" Anders demands.

Hawke grunts, pointing upward before her hand slides to the back of her head, kneading the newest little bump. Everyone is feeling a little emotional and having a templar and a mage in such tight confines likely isn't the best idea. She tries to keep that in mind as she nurses the ache spreading over the rest of her head.

He tilts his head back, the split lip already sealing and the bruised eye fading. Alistair won't be so lucky, surely.

"Andraste's ass," he snaps, already reaching for his staff.

The one nearest starts to descend, it's multiple legs curled around the webbing as it drops lower and lower. Hawke shivers the moment she stares up at it. She's never feared spiders before, of course those were the smallish sort that could be squished beneath the heel of a boot or pinched between fingers. These ones, well she is fairly certain these could squish her between their legs. _Maker_, even their teeth are enough to shred them into small pieces. All in all, she could safely say that she does not want one of these things touching her.

Anders rises before her, his staff balancing on the rubble before him. A bright light casts from him, strong enough that even Hawke has to shield her eyes from him. It sweeps across the tunnel and climbs the walls, devouring every shadow in its path. The moment the glow falls on the creatures above, they shriek - this horrid, piercing noise that curdles Hawke's blood - and they retreat.

Hawke's eyes follow the line of the light, counting - a dozen more than she initially thought.

"Maker's breath," Alistair groans.

A puff of air slides past Hawke's lips and she pushes to her feet. "Not to place any blame, but this one falls on you two," she grumbles as she extracts her bow.

The moment Anders' light fades, they will descend again. She'd rather take out as many now as possible.

"Varric," she calls. "Bet Fear will win this one."

"You're on," he grumbles.

She lets loose her first arrow, the tip lodging just beneath the first's carapace. It's squeal makes her skin crawl, but she continues to release shot after shot. The heavy crunches of their bodies dropping to the ground follows, legs twisting into their abdomens as they fight off death.

But with their shrieks, more seem to follow, most daring to enter the light as their eyes land on the prey below. Hawke hesitates at the sight of barbed legs pulling the arachnids out of the cracks and crevices above. It's never ending, and as one they swarm over the rocks, racing toward the ground to feast on those that would foolishly wander into their presence.

"_Run!"_ Anders shouts, his hands falling on Hawke's shoulders and shoving her forward. Anders remains at the back, darting off some final spells to hold the creatures off.

Dread is immediately at her side, his head butting against her when he decides she isn't moving quite fast enough. She can feel her companions at her back like a wave, shifting with her and following her lead.

Unsure of where to go, she takes the first turn and then the one after that.

"Hawke, no!" Anders and Alistair bellow together and she slams her heels into the ground. But it's too late.

A shadow uncurls right before her and from it lifts a mottled head. With the faded hue of Anders' staff, she can see the milky eyes staring back at her. Swart lips peel back from long, glittering fangs, and the darkspawn before her almost _laughs_. Never has Hawke heard anything of the sort and her heart stutters, even as she reaches for her dagger. For a moment, she rejoices that it's just the one, until another shadow rises, and another, until an entire horde fills the corridor before them.

Spiders at their back, darkspawn at their front, Hawke knows they've finally used up all their luck down here. It seems it's to be a choice of being eaten or… being eaten. And she doesn't particularly like either of those options.

The attack is immediate - Anders rushes forward and slams the butt of his staff down onto the ground. The temperature plummets, the cold stretching over her flesh.

Fervent words pour forth, falling from Anders' hurried lips. His head bows forward, his hair sliding over his face, hiding him from the sight before them. She can hear the spell he chants, but she can't make out the words - it isn't in Common.

A storm swirls between the walls, blistering winds and dagger sharp icicles assaulting the horde struggling before them. They mean to rush forward and attack, but they can't get past the spell.

She draws Fear once more and empties her quiver on the beasts in a percussion of shots, Varric matching her arrow for arrow.

Anders shifts next to her and the spell alters. Like a chilled breath, the frost sweeps over the squealing darkspawn, swallowing them in ice, their bodies hardening into thick, frozen statues. He staggers, his magic retreating as he slumps against the wall. Hawke pays him a single glance before dashing into the fray and driving her daggers down into the creatures until they shatter. Isabela and Alistair follow after her, his sword a great deal more useful than her two daggers.

Hawke dances around them, her blade tasting deeply of their tainted blood, even frozen as it is. She spins, with the intent of meeting her next victim, when steel clashes against hers. The two blades sing to one another, the alloy ringing from the strength of the connection.

Hawke's eyes lift, expecting to meet those of a darkspawn when instead she finds herself staring into her own. It's been so long since she's seen her eyes in the face of another that it startles her. Her breath catches, her dagger slipping from her hands and clattering to the ground, fingers pressing into her gaping lips.

Raven dark hair, mussed and curled, dampens the familiar pale brow. Dark lashes frame those ancestral blue eyes, and her gaze follows the long, slender line of his nose. His mouth, familiar even as it tips up, an expression she's unaccustomed to seeing on his face.

"Carver!" she shouts.

Of all the… she can't believe it! So long spent worrying about him, to find him in a place such as this. Laughter spills from her lips and she throws herself into her brother's outstretched arms. Two others stand behind them - the face of one she recognizes and is shocked to see down here after hearing that he married Anora. The other is as much a stranger to her as they are to him, but this all matters little.

"What are you doing down here?" she demands, her eyes slitting dangerously as though silently scolding him.

"I could ask you the same question, sister," he laughs, ruffling her hair as he used to do when they were younger. "I see you've dealt with our little problem for us."

She scoffs gently. "Still getting me to do your fighting for you, I see."

This used to be met with scorn, but instead her brother laughs and slings a heavily armored arm around her shoulders. "Some things don't change, do they?"

Cousland hardly spares her a glance. Instead, he stalks past them both, gaze landing on the wilting mage and the panting templar. "Interesting company you keep," he calls back to her. "This one is supposed to be dead, and this one exiled."

"From _Ferelden_," Alistair snaps.

"Indeed," he muses. "An interesting twist of events either way. I am sure the First Warden will be quite interested to learn of your existence, Anders, and yours as well, Alistair. There were many places you could have gone to continue serving the Wardens beyond Ferelden. We shall have to work out an appropriate punishment for both your abandonments."

Sensing more danger, only in another form, Hawke pushes away from Carver and jogs forward, placing herself between the two in question and Cousland. He tilts his head down toward her and she finds herself staring into those same dark eyes that she had two years ago. His brows lift questioningly, as though he finds her amusing.

"These are my Wardens," he tells her. "I may question them if I see fit."

Her hand creeps around to her back. She's not sure why she feels so protective. Perhaps it's the way Alistair and Anders spoke of him. Anders had taken great offense to being compared to him.

"You may question, but they don't answer to you, not anymore."

"Hawke-" Anders murmurs.

"Don't see that it applies to you at all, little girl," he sneers. "I am their Commander and King."

"This isn't Ferelden," she snaps, refusing to cow to him. Alistair had told them that he had married Anora to rule with her over Ferelden - her _home_. But she's never stopped to give that thought. It not only makes him Alistair's and Anders' king, but hers as well. It is a heady thought, staring into the face of the man that controls all the armies of Ferelden and wields the country's power. "You exiled Alistair. He no longer has to follow your orders."

He slants a glance at the man behind her and finally nods. "Perhaps not as his King, no, but as his Warden Commander? That is an entirely different matter, for them both."

Her blood runs cold at the thought of him ordering Anders back to Ferelden, or worse. He would run, they both know that. So when Cousland steps forward, she meets his step with one of her own, her second - and last remaining - dagger pressing into his neck.

"_Marian!"_ her brother barks at her, rushing to her side. "What are you doing!"

"Making my point," she states calmly and coldly, allowing the knowledge that she could easily split his neck fill her eyes.

"Marian, this is -"

"I know who it is, brother," she interrupts him. "And now he knows who I am. Ferelden is no longer my home. Neither is it Alistair's or Anders'. I have no qualms with bleeding you."

"You do realize I could have you slain for this," Cousland states, those dark-as-night eyes swirling dangerously with the promise of retribution. His blade lies quietly in his hand and Hawke knows he could strike easily, but could he do it before she slit his throat? Unlikely.

"If you make it out of the Deep Roads alive," she tells him.

Practical man that he is, he actually _chuckles_ and steps back, nodding. "Fair enough, dear lady. So, why don't we set up a camp and my Wardens and I can discuss the terms of their abandonments peacefully."

Hawke still clutches at her blade, but she curves back, until she's flush against Anders.

"Hawke, lower your knife," he whispers into her hair, his fingers finding their way to her hips. "No harm ever came by simply talking."

She does as he asks, making it a point to only do so at his request. But he's wrong. Much harm can come from talking. And she silently promises to do whatever is necessary to keep both Alistair and Anders safe from this man.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: This chap was edited to give a serious overhaul, one that was desperately needed lol. Thanks so much to Eve Hawke for taking the time to help me with that :) And as a side note, this story will be moving to Rated M next chap, but I hope everyone continues to read and enjoy in the story. _

_Thanks again to everyone who is following along :) You're reviews are like crack to me. _

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Chapter 19

**-Hawke-**

* * *

_One Day Earlier_

The fire burns low, devouring what little kindling they've managed to gather. Thick ribbons of smoke plume over her hands as she hovers closer to what little warmth the dwindling flames provide. A brume of cloud rises to the ceiling, stifling what little oxygen remains in the enclosure. Three shadows hover around a nearby outcrop, but it's the one reposed against the stone walls she watches most closely. Anders' face is veiled by darkness, yet she can still see anger pinching his eyes as he listens to Cousland speak. As for Alistair, he stands at attention. All she can make out is his profile, though from the hard press of his bowed mouth, he appears just as heated. It seems her two Wardens have found a common enemy in Cousland.

Her fingers sweep down her side, itching to free her blades from the thick belt cinched around her waist. Something about Cousland unsettles her and she thirsts to drag the silver edge of her blade across his neck. She manages to tamp back a bitter sound of frustration and drops her gaze down to the dying embers. _Useless_, that's how she feels. The man standing before them is the king-consort of Ferelden, her _home_. Slaying him would be messy business, but one she _wishes _she could indulge in. She draws her blade anyway and settles for sliding the tip beneath her ragged fingernails, picking clean the clumps of dirt and other... unsavory gore.

Anders shifts, drawing her attention back up. His chin tilts back over his shoulder, darkened gaze slamming into hers. He gives the smallest shake of his head, a few rogue strands of golden hair pulling free of his low tie. At her arched brow, his eyes drop to the blades tightly clutched in her hands, before turning back to Cousland.

She scours the path of his broad chest, following the lines of his regal golden armor. Her breath catches at the sight of the proud lion impressed upon the metal. She's seen this armor set one other time in her life and the vision of King Cailan rises in her mind. The _gall_, donning the king's own armor, as it he actually _believes_ himself to hold the position Cailan was birthed to. In name, perhaps, but she's seen nothing to suggest otherwise. Alistair would have been a much more competent leader, by far. He _cares_ for people, unlike this one. But, regardless of desire, she knows she could never actually kill him. Not out of cold blood, simply as a means to keep him away from Alistair and Anders. She's killed plenty of men before, but always bandits, mercenaries, and blood mages. A king - well she'd rather not bring the wrath of Ferelden down around her.

"Marian, have you heard a word I've said?" her brother sighs, shifting uncomfortably next to her in his heavy plate armor.

Her chin rises and she turns to take in the sight of him. He looks far more weathered than she anticipated. Much like Alistair, there are lines to his face that weren't present before, mingling among a grey shadow that hovers above like a raincloud. His mussed hair has grown quite a bit in their time 's even begun to curl at the ragged tips, something he inherited from their father.

His lips crack into a smile under her observations and his arm lifts, fingers curling around the long ropes dangling over her chest and smoothing them back over her shoulder. For a moment, she's startled at the sight of it, having forgotten the lengths she was given for Funalis. Since that night, she hasn't found the time to return to the Emporium, and since coming down here, it's been tucked within her overtunic, kept out of her face.

"This is new," he murmurs, his hand falling from her back and down onto Dread's head. "I think I like it. It suits you. Gives a... softer appeal."

An unladylike snort rises from her throat, one that makes her brother laugh.

Nodding, he turns back to the fire. "I'll bet Mother loves it, though. Bethany, too. She's always been trying to convince you to grow it out."

Her chest hitches, a steel fist closing around her heart. "Carver..." she whispers, her breath gently sparking the flames. "There's something... I should tell you."

Hawke bows her head forward, those lengths he was just admiring sliding over her face like a dark curtain. She hides behind it, afraid to see his face when the words pour from her lips. "Bethany's gone, Carver. I-I froze, I-I panicked... and when she stepped in, to save me, she... she's dead."

Silence falls over them and the only sound remaining is that of the crackling fire. Even the heated discussions across the encampment cease. It isn't until Dread offers a doleful whine and rests his head on her trembling thigh that life returns to the group.

"It was my fault," she continues, finally admitting to what's been festering within her for two years. She's never uttered a single word about all that occurred during their escape of Ferelden. Both Aveline and her mother know that she is the cause of Bethany's death, but neither speak of it. Something Hawke is eternally grateful for. "I'm sorry."

A gentle weight settles over her shoulder and she startles, her head lifting to find Anders standing over her. The anger that twisted his face previously vanishes and in its wake, she sees nothing but comfort and sympathy. But it's not what she wants at this moment.

Their sister's name falls from Carver's lips in a low, broken whisper. A searing, foreign dampness spills over her cheeks and with a scoff, she brushes the offensive tears away before locking gazes with Nathaniel Howe. She takes solace from his empty stare and uses it to balance her teetering emotions.

The son of Arl Howe, or so her brother mentioned earlier. Her brow had darted skyward with this little tidbit of information. Howe was, after all, the man that stood next to Loghain and razed the Cousland name, not that it seems to have affected the youngest any. Strange for the sons of two rival families to travel together. Though, if the stern glares and terse words are evident of anything, it's that there is plenty of unresolved emotion between them.

"Come on, Hawke," Anders whispers close to her ear. "We're leaving."

Her jaw drops, teary gaze darting between Cousland, Alistair, and Anders. _Leaving?_ The king is going to willingly allow them to walk away? She peers into Anders' face, taking note of the firm lips and liquid eyes.

"I have another question, if you'll indulge me," Cousland speaks up, his loud voice hammering off the stone walls. "Tis a simple one, but my curiosity must be sated. _How_, in the Maker's name, did the three of you even meet? It seems... odd that two of my Grey Wardens end up in the presence of a third's sister. It is quite... coincidental, if you believe in such things - and I do not."

Hawke lets slip a bitter laugh. "So, what? You think we're planning some sort of conspiracy against you? And, what? Took our sweet time, to find out when you would just _happen _to be in the deep roads?"

"Marian..." Carver murmurs. "It is a just question. Non Grey Wardens don't simply wander the deep roads with a dwarf and two Grey Wardens at their side."

She whips back around to her brother. His face is drained of color, eyes hooded as he stares at her. He drops his gaze down to his gauntlets, picking at the bits of chainmail poking out. _Bethany._ "Carver, I-"

He gives the smallest shake of his head, a heavy-hearted sigh rushing from between his lips.

"And this lovely, we mustn't forget her," Cousland continues, his heavy steps carrying him across the roads. It's Isabela that he pauses before and if Hawke isn't mistaken, she sneers.

"Was rather hoping you wouldn't remember me," she grumbles.

"Wait... you two know each other?" Alistair asks.

"Quite intimately," Cousland chuckles. "But, ignoring that lovely night - this one breathes betrayal. Had a Crow murder her husband in his sleep. So you see my concern - a dwarf to lead the way, two Grey Wardens, both of which have made their dislike of me quite well known, one of which I took the throne from, and a woman that would hire an assassin to kill the one man she vowed to cherish for all days."

"You know, _the dwarf_ has a name, if anyone feels up to using it," Varric grumbles as he stalks away and pulls up a rock next to the wall. "Come on Rivaini, this is obviously going to take a while. Maybe we can catch up on some sleep."

"Are you _kidding_?" Isabela laughs. "I wouldn't miss this for the world. I can't wait for Hawke to hand him his balls on a platter."

"Just make sure it's a gold one," Cousland scoffs. "My balls deserve nothing less, king and all. Now, answer my question."

Hawke swallows past the lump burning in her throat. "This is ridiculous-"

"Just answer the question, Hawke," Nathaniel finally speaks. "The Warden Commander has _many _that would see him dead. If you have nothing to hide..."

Sighing, she shifts her weight back. "Believe it or not, I've known Anders longer than you have," she snaps, meeting Cousland's stare head-on. "I met him when I was younger-" she catches movement from the corner of her eye, Anders shaking his head ever so gently, his gaze flicking between her and Carver. Hawke's brows snap down, but she continues, unsure of what he's signaling. "In the Lothering forests where I helped him escape the templars."

Anders groans and drops back away from her, his fingers pinching at his brow. Carver jerks to attention, his suddenly slitted eyes snapping to the mage, the news enough to pull him from his funk.

"Oh," Cousland chuckles. "Yes. I've heard talk of this enchanting woman that swept down from the trees to save the poor little mage. I should have known, so in love with the forests as you are."

"My sister!" Carver shouts.

Hawke blinks, watching as her armored brother steps around the fire and stalks toward Anders.

"I didn't know she was your sister, _then_," he states, though she's fairly certain there's a hint of a chuckle beneath his voice.

"You - You -" Carver whips his head back around, his gaze landing on her shoulder and hips, places Anders has touched her in his presence. "I'll-"

"Oh, _enough_, Carver," Hawke sighs, turning back to Cousland. "You'd think I was thirteen again, with you bullying any man that showed interest in Bethany or I."

"You don't know the things he said!" he raves, a metal finger jabbing at Anders' throat, reminding her once more that Anders and Carver traveled together.

Her lips curl into an amused smile. "No, but I can imagine."

Cousland's lips crack with amusement. "Indeed. And this one?" he jerks a finger back over his shoulder.

"Alistair found me," but she doesn't say where. If they haven't told Cousland what city they hail from, she won't be the one. "And I assure you, it was not intended, if his drunken state meant anything."

Cousland sweeps a glance over Alistair once more before nodding. "He always did require a master to lead his leash."

His words force something to snap in Hawke, but before she can budge in his general direction, a steel gauntleted fist darts through the air and slams beneath Cousland's jaw.

The king rears back, staggering into the stone wall. If he were a lesser man, that might have knocked him on his ass, but he's also a Grey Warden, warrior, and Commander of the Ferelden armies - too many titles, if anyone thought to ask. His response is immediate and he shoves off the wall, about to tackle Alistair, when Hawke sweeps down and grasps the steel collar of his breast plate. There's been enough brawling at this point. She uses his momentum, throwing him to the ground and riding him down with her blade pressed in the hollow of his throat once more.

For a moment, she dares to flick a pleased smile at him. "The second time we've found ourselves in this position," she mumbles, listening to a slight scuffle at her back. She can hear her people moving and she wants to steal a quick look, but nothing could convince her to break contact with Cousland. The man is like a poisonous snake, just waiting for right moment to sink his fangs into her neck. "I wonder if it's a sign from the Maker to end your existence, down here where no one will think to look. What _is_ a king doing down here anyways?" she breathes in his face.

A flash of amusement darkens his eyes. Steeled hands slide over her rear and she hears a choked grunt - more than one - rise behind her.

"I always knew you'd be a challenge to _fuck_," he rasps in her face. "Worth it though, from the look of it."

Anger swirls in the depths of her stomach, tightening her fingers around the smooth hilt. Hawk's eyes narrow, teeth setting into her pursed lips, and she suddenly presses down on the blade. He bucks beneath her and his hands strike against her side, throwing her down to her back. A shadow looms over her and she lifts her eyes to find their positions reversed.

"I'm _always _on top," he growls in her face, darting down as though he intends to kiss her.

A chorus of shouts rise in the small encampment, Anders and Alistair's voices lifting above them all. She can hear their hurried steps, but before they can reach them, Hawke pulls free an arm and strikes out, her clenched fist driving into the side of his head. Cousland shifts just enough for her to get her legs beneath him and with a solid push, he's launched off of her. She doesn't wait for his next move. Instead, she rolls across the oiled ground and falls into the nearest shadow, vanishing from sight.

"One of _them_, hey?" he snarls. "Cock tease. Nothing but a scared little girl, after all." His fingers press into his throat, the metal coming away stained with his blood. "A little too much for you, hmm? Come back out here and I'll show you what a _real_ man is capable of."

"_Fuck you_, Cousland," she spits from the shadows.

"Love to, darlin'," he growls, those dark eyes scouring the shadows for her.

"_I'm_ not the one bleeding," she hisses.

"Hmm, I can fix that, I assure you," his hands rise to the hilt of his blade, drawing it from his back.

"Commander," Nathaniel sighs.

Together, Hawke and Cousland glance up to find a ring of weaponry pointed at Nathaniel and Carver. Dread darkens the space by Cousland's feet, his lips drawn back as a low snarl spills from his throat, simply awaiting his mistress' command.

"Just as well," he sighs. "Someone as small as you probably needs a… _lesser_ man."

Anders whips around, a furious glow spreading over his fingers. The staff clutched in his hand responds in a similar fashion, lighting with the silvered light of the fade.

"This is pointless," Nathaniel sighs. "Commander, you know we are outnumbered. There is no way we can force these two men to accompany us back. So shall we all just go our separate ways and-"

All five Wardens tense at once, heads snapping around in the same direction. Hawke reaches for her bow immediately, knowing the looks that cross their faces.

"To arms!" Cousland shouts and her feet immediately carry her out of the shadows and closer to Anders.

All animosity vanishes in the wake of the new and sudden threat. She reaches for her quiver strapped to her back, groaning when her fingers snatch at empty air. Blades it is, then. But from the sudden screeching and thunderous march of darkspawn, blades won't be enough.

* * *

-.-

**-Anders-**

* * *

_Broodmother Day_

"This is nonsense," Cousland snaps. "You have us following this bloody hound through the deep roads, all to find that little _bitch_. You're going to get us all killed. We're more likely to stumble over her half eaten corpse -"

"Commander, that _is_ my sister," Carver groans,his heavy hand falling on Anders' arm just as he was about to whip around and do… _something_. Anything to shut the man up. If it weren't for the fact that they're travelling with Hawke's brother, he might have followed through with the desire to feed this blighted man to the darkspawn. But Carver wouldn't allow it and Anders knows if any harm came to her brother, Hawke would never forgive him.

He shares a glance with Alistair, unsurprised to find the same anger he feels swirling behind his eyes. Both have traveled with Cousland, though he can admit that Alistair probably had it worse. An entire _year _Alistair had to put up with him. Anders only suffered for a few months.

His gaze drops back down on Dread, silently praying for her mabari to pick up her scent and dash off with him and Alistair on his heels.

"Sister or not, Carver, I'm telling you right now, I'm _this_ close to ordering the three of us back -"

"_Shut up_," Anders hisses, afraid that Justice might take control if he has to listen to another _moment_ of this blighted man's incessant objections. How he hated working with him in Vigil's Keep. The nobles of Amaranthine had attempted a coup, and silently, both Nathaniel and Anders had cheered them on. Anders had even suggested they offer the coup assistance. But Nathaniel is all about honor and duty, knowing what his father had become. He's determined to prove to the world that he is _not_ that same man. Anders couldn't care less about what sort of man he is. He just wants Hawke back and that means doing _whatever_ is necessary to fulfill that goal.

Dread falls to a dead stop, his nose tipped back as he scents the air. His head gives a quick jerk to the side, those liquid eyes flicking in the same direction. Astounded yet again by the intelligence mabaris possess, Anders follows his line of sight, noting the darkened corridor that sits hidden next to them. He wonders if that's where Hawke is when he feels a faint breeze ghosting over his face and ruffling his feathered pauldron.A quiet breath catches in his throat, his now widened eyes falling on Dread. The hound watches him expectantly, his head dropping once in recognition of their mutual understanding. _The way out._ Silently, they press forward, and Anders takes note of their location. Cousland would likely order Carver and Nathaniel to leave if he saw the exit and he can't allow that, not yet.

When next Dread stops, Anders fingers tighten around his staff. This _must_ be it. The mabari steals a single step forward and his ears snap back, head lowering in a defiant snarl. He spares a single glance to the group hovering behind him before dashing off, with Anders close behind.

It doesn't take long for him to hear what Dread does and the moment the sounds lift, his blood runs cold.

"Is that... that _is_, isn't it?" Alistair pants next to him.

Anders holds his tongue. Acknowledging the templar's words only makes it true and he can't think of that. He pushes harder, putting every last bit of energy he has left into running.

"That's Marian!" Carver bellows behind them and both Alistair and Anders wince.

"I _know_ who it is!" Anders snaps quietly. "How many women do you think are down here, screaming like that? Now, _shut up_ before the darkspawn hear you!"

The heavy shifting of their armor alone is enough to alert anything nearby that isn't aware of them, they don't need to advertise further with shouting.

Her cries rise in volume, they're getting closer. He _needs_ to get to her, before - well, just before. He tries to drown out the sound of her blood curdling screams, tries to focus on simply _getting there_, but it gets harder with every passing moment.

When his name echoes through the roads, chased by another of her screams, he shudders and somehow finds a little more speed.

_Finally_ they round what _has_ to be the final corner and as a group, dig their heels into the stone, the sight before them rendering them motionless.

Hawke lays stretched over the stone, clawed hands grasping at her jaw and forcing her mouth open. One of the loathsome creatures perches above her, a foul substance trickling down its rotted chin. Her eyes are so wide, panic stealing the very color from her face. The _sounds_ she makes, full of terror, _pull_ at him and he launches forward, slamming the butt of his staff into the ground. His lips move in a fervent whisper, calling forth his magic. It uncurls in the depth of his stomach, stretching forth as though woken from a deep slumber and begins to pulse. Drawing on the veil surrounding him, it spreads outward in a cloud of chilled air. At the final moment, he throws his arms wide, forcing the hand of winter out toward the surrounding darkspawn.

The one perched above her thickens into a hardened statue, the substance about to spill into Hawke's mouth now frozen and hovering above her like an icicle.

A shocked sound spills from her gaping lips and she squirms furiously, eyes snapping to his when she finally manages to tear her head free of the icy grips holding her in place.

"_Anders!_" she shouts, tears spilling over those smooth cheeks. "Anders, please, get me out of here!"

His throat closes at the sight of terrified state. He's never seen her in such a way before, not after everything they've faced together. As he rushes forward, he recalls her mentioning her fear of darkspawn and then her telling of what happened to her sister. Losing her sister because she froze in the face of them.

Their remaining companions rush forward, driving their blades through the army of frozen darkspawn. They shatter in their wake, eventually freeing Hawke from their hold. Anders reaches down and clasps the proffered hand, gently lifting her to her feet. She's only just straightened when she launches herself into his chest, shivering terribly. His arms curve around her and he draws her back, confident that their large group can handle the inert creatures. Instead, he focuses his attention on Hawke, his fingers smoothing her knotted hair down over her back. Her tears dampen the thin shirt he wears, but he doesn't care. His arms simply tighten, offering the protection he couldn't before.

With the clamorous shattering, he almost misses the soft words spilling from her lips. If it weren't for the slight shifting of her mouth against his chest, those intimate whispers might have gone unheard entirely.

Brow furrowing, he dips over her, listening to her heartfelt chant.

"You came," such a small thing to chant, yet it tightens his chest. "You came."

His lids fall shut and he buries his lips in her dusty hair. "Always," he whispers, for her only.

A shriek rends the air and Hawke startles against him, burying her face into his neck. Anders' eyes snap open in time to watch Alistair dart up the side of a broodmother and bury his blade through its head. _Maker_, he hadn't even_ noticed_ the broodmother. And now realizing what the darkspawn had been doing, it is_ him_that shivers. He doubts Hawke knows, and he swears to himself that he will _never_ tell her what they'd tried to turn her into. He'd learned in Amaranthine about these creatures - women stolen from the surface and 'injected' with the darkspawn taint through use of saliva and flesh. If the female doesn't outright die, she begins to change, begins to feed on other sentient creatures, until mutating into the beast perched before them. From there, it becomes the broodmother's purpose to bring forth as many of the filthy spawn as possible. He just wants to hold her, forget that they even came down here, but he has to know. He can't _feel_ any form of corruption within her, but he _must_ know for sure.

"Did they feed you anything, anything at all, Hawke?" he whispers, his hands framing her cheeks and lifting her head back until he can see her face, slick with tears as it is.

"No," she whispers. "No, no…"

A relieved breath disturbs a few stray strands of hair. He shifts her weight, stilling when a pained cry rises from her.

"What-"

"My arm," she mumbles, drawing away from him and lifting it. At the sight of her contorted wrist, bent in three places, a haze of red clouds his thoughts.

She startles when his warm touch slides beneath her hand, her eyes finally rising to meet his, staring up at him from beneath her dark fringe. He takes the liberty of brushing it off her eyes, as he's desired to do so many times before this. The energy rises naturally and he lets the magic flow over her. Flashes of her injuries form in his mind and he sucks in a sharp breath, taking note of her splintered ribs as well.

These breaks mend so easily, much more so than her mind will. He can feel the fractures there as well, the fear pitted deep within only strengthening the hold the darkspawn have on her.

"Is she alright?" a deep voice disturbs them.

Anders blinks, shattering the connection between them and lifts his gaze to find Carver watching them carefully.

"Yes," Anders nods. "Thank you."

Nathaniel slips around Alistair, casting a simple glance down on her, before turning to his Commander. Anders doesn't like how Cousland watches her, like prey, as though _this_ is the moment to test his luck with her.

"Commander," Nathaniel calls his name sharply. "I think it's best if we part ways now," he comments, his gaze shifting to Anders once more.

The king-consort spares a glance, sizing up Anders and his remaining companions. As Nathaniel pointed out before, he is sorely outnumbered and Anders arches a brow, silently reminding him of this. Cousland releases a tight breath and glances back at the broodmother. Even he shudders before nodding and marching back the way they came.

"Thank you," Anders says in a gentler voice.

"Get her out of here," Nathaniel tells him. "I know you saw the way out back there -"

"What?" Alistair hisses.

"-She doesn't belong down here," he finishes before nodding to Carver.

Her brother sweeps down and brushes his lips against her head. "Be safe, sister. Give mother my love."

"I will," she whispers, locking eyes with her brother one more time before he hurries after his Warden Commander.

"You know the way out?" Alistair demands. "And you didn't tell me?"

"Couldn't," Anders sighs. "Cousland would have left and we needed to find Hawke."

She shifts against him and he glances down to find her head tipped back toward him.

"_What_ do we have here?" Varric's voice lifts from across the cavern. He suddenly starts laughing, his head swinging back to regard them. "Hawke, you need to be taken by darkspawn more often!"

Anders and Hawke remain where they are, but Alistair lopes over the pile of darkspawn corpses to see what the dwarf found.

"Thank you," she whispers when they're alone, her head still tipped back toward him.

He drops forward, stealing her lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue sweeping possessively through her mouth. His fingers latch around her overtunic, snagging her completely against him.

"Stop snogging, you two, and come look at this!" Isabela chuckles.

They break apart and Anders is reassured when he sees a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Scare me like that again and I'll kill you myself," he teases, kissing the tip of her nose before leading her over to whatever it was they found.

His feet still at the sight of heaping treasure and a startled laugh falls from his mouth. "Trust you, Hawke, to turn a life and death situation into the payload you were hoping for."

A smattering of chuckles rises around him.

"Come on," she says. "Let's collect everything we can carry and go home."


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: So this chap was supposed to be the one that bumped the story up to M, but I had such fun running through the forests that the chap got away from me again haha. Definitely next chapter, though, it will be bumped up. _

_Thanks again to everyone following along. Your reviews are like finely spun gold, making me richer every time :) I shall be getting to those singular responses right away :) _

_It looks as though Ms Eve Hawke has become my official beta, so as always, thanks to her. Enjoy and do remember to feed my addiction perdy please. _

* * *

Chapter 20

-Hawke-

_Fresh air_. That's the first thing she scents the moment Anders leads them around the veiled corner. The shadows stretch out toward them and for the smallest of moments, she hesitates. What's within them? Are they sure it's the way out? She can feel the breeze sweeping over the stone, a sure sign of the exit, yet her heart thumps desperately in her chest.

The image of the darkspawn hovering over her, trying to... _feed_ her whatever that foul liquid had been sits with her still. It'd been luck that delivered her Anders at that exact moment. But it isn't the only memory weighing down on her. That creature Alistair had slain - _broodmother , _she'd heard them call it - terrified her even more than the wretched creatures that had restrained her. Never before has she given thought as to how darkspawn are created. She just thinks of them, and there they are, as though they sprout from the earth itself. But that _thing_, with its teats and tentacles - she'd seen the repulsive bulbous sacs surrounding her, dripping with liquid, that same liquid the creature exuded from its limbs.

She lifts her eyes from the rubbled path, casting a sidelong glance at Anders. His hands haven't relinquished hold on hers since he found her, not that she wants them to. But there's a fine tremor to his fingers, one that he hasn't noticed yet. Either that or he simply doesn't care enough to pay attention to it.

Anders steps into the thick shadows, pausing when she falls still. The tips of her boots toe the line separating them and she just can't convince herself to cross over. The shadows have always offered her sanctuary and on the surface, they likely still will, but down here...

"Hawke?" Anders whispers, closing the distance between them.

Warm fingers hook under her chin and draw her head up until she finds herself staring into his eyes. There's a thread of panic in them, darkening them to that liquid topaz she's begun to grow accustomed to.

"Do you feel any?" she whispers, her head tilting slightly to ensure their companions remain behind her.

His shoulders round, his fingers curving over her cheek and brushing the hair back from her face. "No. There's none left in the area. We're almost at the exit. I can feel the breeze."

She nods. She can as well, but that doesn't make it any easier to step into the shadows. Dread offers a sympathetic whine, ducking his head beneath her free hand, working it until her fingers rest just behind his ear. Her lips crack into half the smile she's capable of and she rubs against his fur.

Anders' fingers give hers a gentle squeeze and then she's passing into the shadow. Her throat instantly seals and her chest tightens.

"It's alright, kitten," Isabela suddenly whispers by her ear, driving a sharp squeak from Hawke's lips.

She loathes this... this feeling of impotency. Nothing has ever affected her in such a manner, but there's something about the darkspawn's permanent sneers and decaying flesh that makes her skin crawl.

Isabela slings an arm around Hawke's waist, her hip bumping against hers as they walk.

"That thing scared the wits out me, as well," her friend offers, casting her a warm look. "Do you suppose that's how darkspawn are made?"

Hawke's chin dips. That's exactly what she'd been thinking. What other purpose would a creature with so many teats possess? And with such a name as _broodmother_, really it does seem self-explanatory.

"To think they were trying to make you one of those... _things_-"

"_Isabela!"_ Anders shouts, his head whipping around to glare at the woman.

"Wait, what?" Hawke gasps, eyes darting between them, even though she can only make out their outlines. _Make her a broodmother?_ Is such a thing even possible? That vile substance, had that been their intent? _Maker_, she feels ill and she breaks at the waist, her elbows resting against her knees as she struggles for a clean breath. _Air_, that's what she needs. And she needs it now.

Anders' fingers spasm around hers and a faint beryl glow appears from tiny cracks in his skin. Suddenly Hawke can see and her breath catches. More of those repugnant sacs, lining the inner walls. She squeezes her eyes shut, she doesn't want to see this anymore.

"I-I'm sorry!" Isabela, for once, sounds contrite. "I didn't know we weren't-"

"Get me out of here," Hawke interrupts them, her voice a breathy imitation.

Anders pulls on her, his steps quickening as they rush toward the source of air. He drags her around the corner, fingers curving over her shoulders as he places her in front of him and directs her gaze toward an opening. She's but a few steps from the mouth of the roads and there, right before her, rests the barrier between shadow and light. Not just any light - _sunlight_. Her arm lifts from her side, fingers hovering in the darkness, afraid to penetrate the thin line, afraid that it won't be real.

The second the warmth spills over her hand, her mouth tugs into a true smile. Her chest loosens, her shoulders round, and she relaxes against Anders. She has no idea how long they've been down there, but she knows it's been _too_ long.

She staggers forward, the light press of Anders' touch against her elbow holding her steady as she climbs the jagged rocks and sharp slope. Her fingers claw at the stone, her toes digging into the grooves, as she _pushes_ her way up.

"A little further," Anders murmurs behind her, his hands assisting anywhere he can.

The moment her fingers grip into dirt and grass, a startled laugh spills from her lips and a rush of energy consumes her. She scrambles, her feet much more useful when she braces them against the narrowing walls and shoves herself out. One knee presses into the earth and she extracts the second, tumbling down onto her back.

She forces her eyes open and stares up. Overhead the intense blue of the noonday sky bursts like a jeweled sapphire; so perfect as it stretches over them. One winged cloud above overhangs in the west, threatening to rend the blissful calm. But Hawke doesn't care if the skies themselves open up. It could rain sheets upon them and she would dance gaily through it.

Laughter bubbles from her lips and she presses her fingers against them. _Oh, Maker_, she never thought she could feel such absolute bliss, and all from simply climbing out of a darkened pit. _A darkspawn infested, broodmother nesting, darkened pit, _she reminds herself.

One by one, her companions join her on the surface and she welcomes them with a grin as bright as the sun.

-.-

-Anders-

He can't help but laugh at the sight stretched before him, Hawke flopping about like a mabari rubbing itself in grass. Dread gives a pleased huff and dives down onto the ground next to her, flipping onto his back and echoing her movements.

Underground, cast into that infernal darkness, he hadn't noticed just how _filthy_ she is. A thin layer of dust and dirt streaks over her bronzed face, small smudges left behind from the touch of those revolting creatures. He wonders if they all look the same but he can't turn his eyes away from her, not with that radiant glow overcoming her face.

He sinks to his knees at her side, his fingers brushing against her cheek. "Look at you," he murmurs in a soft voice, his own body releasing the fine lines of tension that have plagued him since they delved into those depths. "Such a mess."

Her hands creep up to his and she twines them together before pressing the tips of his fingers against her dry lips. Anders' heart skips a beat entirely when a wicked curve claims her mouth. In a few of his darkest moments down there, he'd dreaded that she would retreat from him when they reached the surface. Most of what she'd said down there had to do with fear of death. And while that would be the smartest thing for her to do, he'd still been anxious about it. More than once, he caught himself questioning what would happen once they reached the surface. Would anything change? And could he handle it if it did? But if that look crossing her face teaches him anything, it's that he's a fool.

Distracted with his thoughts, he hardly notices when her fingers snag into the collar of his coat and yank him down, stealing his mouth in a fervid kiss. Anders' eyes flash wide before he sinks into it, his hands curving under her back to lift her from the ground. _Definitely a fool_.

"Oi, you two," Isabela sighs. "Can you put the breeding on hold until we're somewhere - I don't know, _further_ away from this blighted hole in the ground."

Anders breaks from the kiss and rests his brow against hers. The entire company could complain at the top of their lungs and it wouldn't stop him from taking the time to enjoy this moment.

"Remind me, when we get home, to show you just how _grateful_ I am to you for rescuing me," she whispers in a low voice.

His lids crack and he stares down on her, the banded sunlight whisking over her face and brightening those crystal eyes. She _can't_ mean... can she? Her mouth crooks and she slides her fingers through the loose strands of his hair. _Maker_. Whatever could he have done in a previous life to be gifted someone like her?

"Does anyone know where we are?" Varric's voice lifts away from them. Anders ignores the question and slants his mouth over hers once more. His kiss is gentle and tender, fingers curling around the thin column of her neck and up the back of her head.

"That's the Minanter River," Alistair comments.

Anders draws back, brushing his lips over the rounded tip of her nose before rising off her and helping her to her feet. "Minanter River," he repeats. If his knowledge of Thedas geography tells them anything, it means they are on the north side of the Vimmark Mountains. Certainly not somewhere he would have expected to end up.

His feet carry him over to the edge of the sheer cliff their companions perch on, his hand wrapped tightly around Hawke's, drawing his thumb over her knuckles. Sure enough, they stand on the very banks of the river and just off to their left is one of the largest cities he's ever seen. Estates far grander than anything he's ever seen grasp at the skies with sparkling paths leading the way within. It's the barely discernible city square, perched on the edge of the water bank that's most telling.

"Starkhaven," he informs them.

A few glances quirk toward him, eyebrows lifted.

"How do you know that?" Varric questions.

"A lot of free time in the tower to study," he chuckles. "Starkhaven is the largest city in the Free Marches and the only one where the city square can only be accessed by a barge. See the estate furthest to the back, the largest of them all? That would be the Vael's residence, ruling family of Starkhaven."

"And here I thought all you mages simply exchanged recipes," Alistair grumbles, his mood having darkened since they crawled out of the pit.

Anders has a guess to his problem and his hand tightens around Hawke's, a challenging look sweeping over his face as he meets Alistair's stare. "Mm, I was given one for the most delicious chocolate chip cookies you'll ever taste," Anders comments, refusing to let the templar's mood affect his.

"Cookies?" Hawke perks up next to him. "Why haven't you ever made these fantastic cookies?"

"It could be Wycome for all I care," Varric laughs, interrupting their talk of sweets. "Just get me somewhere with food, ale, and a bed."

"And a bath," Hawke offers, her shoulder brushing his as she curves over the cliff edge.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Anders teases, his fingers snatching at her arm and pulling her back before the banks could crumble away beneath her feet.

Hawke gasps and rounds toward him, her hand catching against his shoulder. "Oh, like you smell like a bag of roses!"

"Rotted roses, maybe," Isabela laughs. "I agree with _both_ Varric and Hawke. Let's just go down and see what we can find."

"Maybe you can find yourself a pretty little noble to shack up with for the night," Varric laughs.

She shrugs as she turns away from the sight of the city and heads toward a path. "Hey, those two can't be the only ones snogging," she jerks her thumb over her shoulder, pointing at Anders and Hawke.

"Well, they _could_," Varric laughs. "But you would never let that pass."

"Got that right, dwarf, now someone lead the way. You don't want me trying to lead us through forests."

Hawke's steps quicken, pulling them both to the front of the group. Her hand slips from his and he relinquishes it, content to watch as she starts winding through the trees and grasping lovingly at the branches.

He's reminded of the first time they met, how impressed he'd been as he watched her fire up the length of the tree with little concern. And the second time he laid eyes on her, scaling down the gallows columns as though they were nothing more than ladders.

She pauses at the base of the tree and draws the hood of her overtunic back up over her head, tucking the long tresses behind her back to keep it off her face. He knows her intent the moment her fingers dig into the gnarled knots of the bark. And then up she goes, hardly pausing to find grooves to land her feet in. Not moments later, she's standing on the highest branch she could find, slanting out over the edge, marking their path.

"_Maker,_" Alistair breathes. "I forgot how quickly she could do that."

Even Isabela watches with a slight parting to her lips. Anders chuckles and steps past them. She isn't the only one that can climb like that. Without a wasted breath, he scales up after her, his mind focusing on being alone with her, if only for a few moments.

"Show off," he hears Alistair grumble by the time he makes it to the second level. If the templar wasn't wearing so much platemail, he likely could do the same.

Lost to the serene song of the birds perched among the branches, Hawke doesn't even hear his approach. He swings around the trunk, his lips tugging into a gentle smile at the sight of her head tipped back, the sunbeams banding across her face.

"Don't fall now," he tells her. "I think Alistair might just cry."

She jerks, her hand tightening against the branch. Her bright eyes fly open and she spins around to meet his gaze. "I forgot you could climb, too," she chuckles.

"You forgot?" he fakes mild horror. "But that's how we met! I'm... hurt," he teases, stepping onto her branch tentatively, ensuring it can hold both their weight.

"If you haven't noticed, I have other things on my mind."

"Mm," he hums. "_I _never forgot that kiss."

Her cheeks color - even after the few passionate kisses they've shared, she _still_ blushes. There's something appealing about that and he draws her in. "Perhaps I should remind you, then?"

"I mostly remember you stealing my purse," she chuckles, her hand swinging down to her side where her overflowing pouch rests against her belt. "Not planning on doing that again, are you?"

"Me, steal?" he gasps, his hand rising to his chest in faux plain. "I'm wounded."

Her lips part with a retort, one he's sure would have been amusing to hear, but her words are stolen by a sharp cry. Hawke stills, her hooded eyes lifting to Anders'.

"Alistair?" she shouts down the tree.

"Wasn't us!" he calls back up.

She shifts on the branch and Anders' fingers sweep around her hips to offer a little more balance. Her hand lifts, to shield against the bright glare of the sun, and then she points.

"There!" she curses before swinging down the branches.

Anders' breath is robbed from him at the sight of her practically leaping down the length of the tree before he remembers to follow after her.

-.-

-Hawke-

Without pausing to give thought to her intentions, Hawke dives through the deep and verdurous forest, winding through the tangled web of branches and understory. Her feet barely touch upon the snarled roots before falling into the next step. How _alive_ she feels! The feel of the earth molding to her feet, the roughened bark beneath her fingers as they wrap around the trees, the fresh and invigorating breeze caressing her face... this is nothing like the deep roads.

She whips around a fallen log and starts in an entirely new direction, following the sound of clashing blades and angered shouts. She skids through her next turn, sharp branches grabbing at her overtunic. The fight is nearing and she can start to make out the incensed bellows. After hopping over a fallen tree, the people battling one another finally begin to take shape. She's briefly distracted by the sight of horses cantering off to the side, their hooves nervously pawing at the earth before she turns back to the issue at hand.

There appears to be one man facing off against four others, and they bear down on him with their longswords hovering before him. Her fingers seal around her smooth hilts and she frees them from their binding, twirling them even as she continues to run. Behind her, she can hear her companions calling her name, but she doesn't give pause. Hawke spills out from the cover of the trees like a banshee riding on the breeze, and darts before the lone man. In the blink of an eye, she establishes that _he_ is the one that requires assistance and she sweeps forward, her blade thrusting through the first's belly with little resistance. Like butter, it cleaves through the thin leather coverings until her hilt meets flesh. The man's lips part with surprise and she drags her second across his neck, splitting him from ear to ear.

From the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of silver and is about to duck beneath the swipe of another's blade when a longsword lifts next to her, parrying the attack and awkwardly shoving it away from her. It's obvious the man she's defending is not accustomed to fighting with something so heavy, but he wields it decently enough for this purpose.

Hawke sweeps low, shouldering the man she just killed off her blade and falling to her knees, driving the dual blades up into the lower gut of the final remaining threat. Her victim staggers back, his hands rising to cup the visceral gash. She lunges to her feet and spins in a tight circle, her blades nearly slicing clean through his neck.

The fourth is taken down by Dread, her hound's fangs slashing through the man's neck and ripping it out with a sickening tear. She spares a glance his way, watching as blood splashes over his matted fur. Likely, they are all in dire need of a bath.

"Hawke!" her companions shout the moment they spill from the cover of the trees.

She steps away, running her blades against the soft cloth of her overtunic. The first thing she's going to do when she finds a weaponsmith is have both her daggers cleaned, sharpened, and polished. These little beauties deserve it after saving her life countless times.

The man belonging to the longsword steps flush to her, straightening his gear while peering queerly at her. His mouth begins to shape a few words when fingers grip at her shoulders and yank her around.

"Have you lost your mind?" Anders demands, his face flashing with anger. "What in the Maker's name got into you!"

She arches a brow and steps away, not particularly enjoying him shouting in her face. Unsure of what he's raving about, her eyes lift over his shoulder to find all her companions glaring at her while heavily panting for air.

"What took you so long?" is all she can think to ask.

"_What took us so long_?" Alistair starts in. "In case you haven't noticed, we're not all _at home_ in the forests. Every second root tripped us up. And there you go, rushing off and sweeping into some fight without even waiting to make sure we had your back!"

She slants at the waist, staring past them into the forests. They found _that_ tricky? She barely broke a sweat. Her shoulders lift with a vague shrug and she turns back to the man whose life she just saved.

"My thanks, serrah," he comments in a thick accent. Her eyes sweep his length, from the strange burnished armor, and reddish-brown hair, to the heavy-lidded steel blue eyes. His face is clean-shaven, something none of her male companions can compare to, accentuating a long, narrow nose, and full, bowed mouth. His hair is drawn back, revealing a prominent visage with two bushy brows that are currently lifted in question.

"No problem," she shrugs, dropping her gaze back down to the litter of bodies darkening the understory.

"But how did you know that _I _was the one under attack?" he questions, following her line of sight as he slides his blade back into the sheath strung around the shoulders of his horse.

"Their armor," she nudges one with the toe of her boot, loosening a strange buckle from a leather strap tied around their chest. "These men belong to the Flint Company."

The man's chin jerks up, rage darkening his eyes to a cobalt sheen. "You _know_ these men, serrah?"

A low chuckle spills from her lips as she sinks to her knees and pats down their sides. What small purses they carry are torn free and tossed back to Varric and Isabela. "I wouldn't say that. They know my blades, but that's about as far as the relationship delved."

"We had to deal with a few of them where we're from," Alistair offers in a tired voice.

Hawke steals a glance back at them, finding both Anders and Alistair still glaring at her. Isabela and Varric look... _annoyed_, certainly, but with the fresh weight of gold spilling into their hands, it's quickly diminishing to mild nuisance. She lifts the longsword hovering just out of reach of this man's grasp and tosses it to Alistair, silencing her chuckle when the raincloud immediately evaporates from his face. As for Anders, well there's nothing here to ease his mood so she simply pushes to her feet and rises to her tiptoes, brushing her lips gently across his.

"I'm fine," she whispers. "Remember, I've fought mercenaries before."

He _almost_ looks cute, sulking like that. And when that predatory gaze falls to hers, she shivers.

"So darkspawn sends you running in the other direction, but mercenaries you just dive in with little thought to your own well-being?"

A crooked smile tugs at her mouth and she drops back down to her heels. Apparently a kiss isn't enough. She'll have to store that information away for the future. "Please," she chuckles. "You've traveled with me long enough to know that no man can stand against me."

His eyes narrow and his brow creases. "A little humility, please, Hawke."

"Hawke?" their new friend questions. "I've heard this name. It's been on the lips of many nobles, speaking of your deeds."

The crooked smile spreads into a full one as she turns. "Is that so? And who might you be?"

"Beg your pardon, my lady," he states, before closing the distance between them and reaching for her fingers. The moment his lips graze against the back of her hand, she arches a single brow. "My name is Sebastian Vael."

Her eyes widen before she can school her face. By now, she would typically extract her hand from the man greeting her, but at the sound of his name, it lays inert within his. Her companions all suck in similar sharp breaths and the clink of coin ceases.

"Trust you, Hawke," Isabela laughs, "to sweep in and save the bloody _Prince of Starkhaven's_ son."

"But-" Hawke stutters, her gaze sweeping past him to fall on the pile of men. "Then, _why_ were these men attacking _you_?"

"I assure you, I intend to find out," he all but snarls. "I was on my way back to our estate, when my squire and I were attacked back on the road. I managed to make it this far before I was overpowered."

"Flint Company is serious business," she mutters more to herself than the others, trying to piece it all together. "A lot of coin would have had to change hands for them to travel this far."

He nods, taking her words to heart. "If you are willing to double up on one of the horses, there are enough to get us back to Starkhaven."

Hawke blinks, her gaze climbing the statuesque length of the royal standing before her. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The horses," he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Your companion there, he will need to ride with someone as it is, but my squire's horse is just off the road a little ways down, and then we'll have enough horses for us all."

"Into Starkhaven," she murmurs.

His brow falls over his eyes. "Yes. It would likely be safest for me to travel in a group, if mercenaries have been hired to murder me."

It _would_, but horses are not something Hawke has ever attempted to ride before. There was once where she hopped onto an oxen - on her brother's dare - but the beast had thrown her clean so quickly, and abruptly, that she'd never tried climbing a four-legged creature again. Just the memory makes her rear feel tender.

She spins around to find a myriad of reactions. Varric's face has twisted with disgust and she really can't hold it against him. Even Isabela looks a little green around the gills. The pirate was born for the seas, not beasts. But Anders and Alistair both appear giddy at this notion.

"Eamon raised horses," Alistair tells her at her inquiring look. "He used to let me ride them all the time."

She shifts toward Anders.

"Never been on one, but it sounds _fun_," he chuckles.

Of course it does. And at least his scowl has been wiped clean from his face. That's something at least.

"Alright," she caves. It would be nice to reach Starkhaven before nightfall and it's only the thought of a fluffy bed with a certain mage tucked in next to her that makes her consent.

They follow as one after Sebastian as Alistair jogs down the road to fetch the remaining stray. Hawke, Isabela, and Varric stand off to the side, peering up at the beasts. Already she feels nauseated. Flea-ridden creatures, that's all she sees. And she's slightly envious as she watches Alistair mount the animal with so little as a blink. Anders, after watching, does quite the same, and much quicker without being weighed down with armor.

Hawke doesn't even know where to begin. The strange covering draped over the horse's back is foreign enough to give her pause.

"Here," Sebastian sidles up next to her. "Place your outer foot in this notch and then on the count of three, lift and I will help you in to the saddle. Swing your inner leg around the rear and you'll find another footrest on the other side. If you need to, slide your fingers through her mane, it won't hurt her."

Hawke's mouth bows down but she follows his instructions. Quite like climbing a tree, it's as simple as figuring out where to place the feet and hands and once she has her footing, she slides over the back with ease.

"There, now," Sebastian states, smiling up at her from the beast's side. "That wasn't so hard, was it."

She can't help but laugh. "I doubt _climbing _it was ever the problem."

He shares another grin with her before doing the same with Isabela and helping Varric into her saddle.

"Not a word, Hawke," Varric grumbles. "Had I known we'd be doing this, I would have voted we remain in the deep roads."

"Not a chance, my friend," she laughs, watching as Sebastian jabs his in the ribs to start it moving. "Not a chance."

She doesn't need to do the same to hers. The moment Sebastian's starts, hers immediately follows. A startled gasp spills from her lips and she drapes over the neck of the creature, her arms winding around the thin column and holding on for dear life.

It's going to be a very long ride.


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: And here begins the M rated chapters :D Hopefully I don't lose any readers due to that! haha But it should be said this chapter is definitely M - if not MA - rated, but since Fanfic doesn't offer MA... *sigh*_

_I had quite a bit of trouble with this bad boy as it was my first time writing in a kinky fashion from a male point of view! Hopefully I did alright, let me know what you think, please, please, please, especially since I spent hours pouring over it and then even more with my lovely beta - who always deserves thanks and cookies - Eve Hawke. _

_So! Enjoy, let me know what you thought and see you all next chappie :)_

* * *

Chapter 21

**-Hawke-**

* * *

The water ripples and glitters under the fading golden sunlight, reminding Hawke of the fistful of jewels wrapped and bound within her pack. The beauty of it robs her of her breath and she finds herself aching for the simple life she sees here; to return home and enjoy the life of a noble with few concerns beyond what garments to don that day. Her gaze lifts to the sky above, painted in beautiful whorls of orange with light bursting from behind the wisps of thin clouds. A masterpiece, gifted to them by the Maker, one she'd taken for granted before the deep roads, but never will again.

Eagerness fills her and with eyes as bright as the sun, she dares the first step onto the ship. The barge sways beneath her feet and after a brief moment of surprise, Hawke wobbles across the deck. She's been on a boat only one other time in her life, but the fortnight it had taken to cross from Ferelden to Kirkwall had been filled with grief and despair. Bethany had just died and they'd had to abandon their lifelong home because of the darkspawn. Now, free from the deep roads, Hawke is determined to enjoy every moment of it.

The deck beneath her feet rocks in time to the rhythmic waves crashing against the underside and she teeters into Sebastian. Once his steady hands release her, she pushes back the hood of her overtunic, a few locks of sable hair spilling over her shoulder. Her mouth tugs into a wide smile as her fingers curl around the metal banister and she curves over the rail, peering down into the crystal depths below. The water breaks and swells with the flow of the fish beneath the surface. She's never seen fish before! Lothering is far from the coast and very few Fereldans are brave enough to test the restless waters. King Maric died on the Waking Seas and if that isn't enough to turn her countrymen away from seafaring, there's always the threat of the Raiders.

The brackish scent of sea-salt draws her back over the railing and she turns, her grin flashing at the sight of Anders leaning against a small wall. "What are you staring at?" she teases, pushing off the wall and crossing toward him.

"Me? Absolutely nothing." His lips curl into a crooked smile.

"Hmm, seems to me you were staring in this general direction."

He pushes off the wall and starts toward her, meeting her in the middle. "Well, there's a lot to look at over here. The barge, the water, the land..."

"You weren't watching any of that," she murmurs, tipping her head back.

"Are you sure? I'm fairly certain I was. There was an interesting-"

She stretches up toward him, chasing after that quirked mouth and proudly stealing it. How she loves the taste of him, the feel of his lips shaping around hers, the gentle caress of his fingers as they rise to the nape of her neck. Everything about him is pure intoxication and she silently hopes it will _always _be this way.

"We'll sup on the upper-" Sebastian's voice rises behind them. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Hawke."

She lowers down and turns, cheeks set aflame when she catches the amused twinkle to his eyes. "Sebastian," she whispers. "You were saying?"

"Uh, yes. We will take our meal on the upper deck with the captain. We'll be docking not an hour after the conclusion of our dinner, and from there, a carriage will take us to the Vael estate."

_A carriage_? Starkhaven is certainly different than any of the cities she's visited. In Ferelden, everything is by foot. Not even Cailan had taken carriages when he toured the nation. Of course, no town she's ever visited is quite as large as Starkhaven. The city itself seems to sweep around them, branching in each direction out into the surrounding foothills and mountains.

"I'm sure Isabela will enjoy dining with the captain," Anders chuckles.

Hawke nods, her eyes sweeping past Sebastian to find the woman in question hovering over the rail, much like Hawke had been, her eyes absolutely alight with the passion of the sea - though it's only a canal.

"How long until supper?" she asks.

"Not a half hour from now. So I would suggest slowly making your way up. The captain is quite delighted to have the promising Marian Hawke aboard his ship."

Hawke groans, loathing the use of her full name. That's something reserved for family, and _only _family.

Anders' arms curve around her waist and draw her into his chest. "Sunset should be soon," he murmurs in her ear. "We could watch it, then eat."

Both sound incredibly divine and sinking into him, she nods, hardly noticing Sebastian's retreat.

-.-

_Kingsway_... it can't be. They'd left for the deep roads on the third day of Matrinalis and for the first time since leaving that blighted hole in the ground, she hears the date: twenty fifth of Kingsway. More than a month down there. She can only hazard a guess how long they traveled with Bertrand. It seems he would have returned to the surface more than a fortnight ago. What had supposed to be a three week expedition had grown into nearly eight. Her mother must be sick with worry and suddenly Hawke cannot wait to return home. Regardless of the relationship she and her mother possess, she longs to throw her arms around her and reassure her that she is safe.

"We must return to Kirkwall as soon as possible," Hawke informs Sebastian.

"Of course," he dips his head and his fork vanishes behind his swart lips. It isn't until he finishes chewing and swallows that he continues to speak. "I daresay we have plenty of room for you and your companions to rest for the night and tomorrow we will see to arranging a caravan back to Kirkwall for you. There is a barge that will take you to Wycome and from there, a ship to Kirkwall."

Hawke's eyes lift from the odd meal, carefully placed on the plate before her and dart across the table. "How long will that take?"

"Our trading merchants typically make the trip in ten days."

_Ten days_. Nearly another fortnight before their companions and her mother will know she is safe. "Is there a faster route?" she questions, her voice quiet and lost to her thoughts.

The table falls still and Hawke blinks, finding every Starkhaven denizen present staring at her, forks hovering before their mouths with widened eyes.

"Well... yes, but my lady, I must caution you-"

"What's the route?" she interrupts,

Sebastian sighs and lowers his fork down onto his plate with a gentle _clink_. "Through the Vimmark Mountains. But that is a _dangerous _path, Hawke."

She casts her gaze back down to her own dish, her hair sliding forward in a dark curtain. It's a strange meal, certainly, especially after feasting on deepstalker for more time that she can possibly know. But resting within this porcelain vessel painted with swirls of reds and yellows is what appears to be a pie. The cook had placed it down on the table before her, informing her that it's Starkhaven's most famous dish: three deboned fish with boiled eggs, dried fruit, spices, and thickened cream, topped with a light crust. The scent of the fish isn't doing much for Hawke's already tender stomach, but for fear of being rude, she scoops off a bit of the dried fruit and lifts it to her mouth with the hope of warming her body to the idea of real food first. A quick glance reveals that she is the only one, though, showing such reservations. Isabela clearly loves fish, diving into the meal with a fervor that _almost _shames the Grey Wardens. Hawke is trying her very hardest not to bring attention to the two men seated at her side, devouring their food with hardly a pause to breathe. Even Dread tosses it back with quick chomps that makes her nauseated.

"How long would the Vimmark Mountains take?" she muses, casting Anders a side-long glance.

"Half the time, but I hardly think an extra five days is too much to ask so long as you arrive home safely."

But all Hawke hears is _half the time_. "Can you provide us with the horses to make such a trip? I can compensate you for their loss, I assure you."

Sebastian's thick brows slant down and he bows over his plate, speaking in hushed tones with the captain. Distracted, Hawke takes the opportunity to slide her pie over to Anders. His chin snaps up, a curious light forming behind his eyes but she simply nods, gesturing for him to have it. He drags it the rest of the way over and cuts it in half, dropping a shared portion into Alistair's dish. Though they dislike one another, Alistair dips his head in thanks before diving into it with a renewed passion. For a moment, Hawke can't turn away, so _disgusted _and _amazed _at the same time as they shovel their forks into their mouths. One would think they would raised by dogs with the dreadful manners they possess, and in the presence of royalty no less.

"Remember to breathe," Varric chuckles under his breath to them before reaching for his wine glass.

"Hawke, I can provide you the horses, but I would ask that you reconsider-"

She lowers her fork down onto the table, having no use for it anymore. "Sebastian, I understand your concern, but we _must _get home. We have been gone far longer than we intended to be and there are those that will be concerned for our well-being."

Her mother has suffered enough, having already watched her youngest daughter die at the hands of an ogre, so soon after losing her son to the Grey Warden Order. And all this after being ripped away from her husband by the templars. Hawke could not imagine leaving this world, abandoning her mother to the care of her uncle. Those five days, while inconsequential to someone like Sebastian, mean the entire world to Hawke.

"Very well," he bows his head. "It will be arranged."

"Thank you," she breathes, allowing the table to finish their meals. She turns out toward the sea, counting the glittering diamonds reflecting off the water.

-.-

The carriage is certainly much more pleasant than riding the horses themselves. Within the dark confines, she can relax without fear of darkspawn or any other fetid creatures descending upon them. Thank the Maker for small things.

It seems she isn't the only one to feel that way either, as both Wardens have long since dropped off against the glossed wall of the carriage. After all they did down in the deep roads, Hawke would not deny them this. They are safe within the care of Sebastian Vael. Speaking of which, her eyes lift to find him watching her.

"You cannot go anywhere these days without hearing your name," he tells her with a soft chuckle. "Starkhaven's merchants all speak highly of you - spinning stories of the caves you delve into to find the resources we trade for."

Hawke's lips quirk into an amused smile. "I already know all about me," she tells him. "But what about you?"

"Me?" he laughs into his hand. "Whyever would you want to know about me?"

"Well, being royalty, you must live a very exciting life."

"Hardly," he tells her, turning to stare out the small box window. "My brother is the heir to the Prince of Starkhaven. I was actually meant to give myself to the Chantry - as the Vaels have been doing since we first look lordship over the people here."

Hawke fails at hiding her surprise at this admission.

"I know," he chuckles again. "I am _hardly_ suited for such a life. Quite rambunctious as a boy, my father thought a life within the Chantry would serve me well. But I refused to submit to his desires. I do not want the life of a Brother. It is something my father and I do not quite see eye to eye on. In fact, I was just returning from the Tantervale Chantry when I was attacked by those mercenaries. My father begged me to give the life a try. He told me I would find peace among them. Well, perhaps _he _would, but I did not."

"So, no plans on converting then?" she whispers.

"No. Can you see me as a Brother of the Chantry? Forever dedicated to the Maker, taking no bride other than Andraste? I am faithful, but I am not fervent."

"So what will you do then? Seeing as your brother is the heir?"

He sighs and glances out the window once more. "I haven't quite decided on that yet. There are things I can still do as the youngest, but I must first convince my father. His brother - my uncle - was given to the Chantry at a young age and my father always respected him for it. I think that is why he pushes so hard for me to do the same. He wishes to see me with a purpose in life. But I wish to find my own."

Hawke nods, his words striking close to home for her. To become a noble is not something she _actually_ desires, but she cannot leave her mother to Lowtown.

"Ah, we're here," he tells her, dismissing their previous conversation with a low sweep of his hand. "Come, my mother will adore you."

Just what she needs, another mother beyond her own adoring her. With a slow nod, she reaches over and gently wakes both Anders and Alistair. As one, they jerk away, their hands falling to their singular weapons. But after a few blinks and a smattering of chuckles among their companions, they shake off the last vestiges of sleep and exit the carriage only to be met by the quick rush of hurried footfalls.

"My lord!" a voice shouts. "Thank the Maker you are alive!"

Hawke steps before Sebastian and draws her dagger, wielding it so that the faint lighting encircling the estate gleams off her blade. The servant digs his heels into the ground, coming to an abrupt stop with wide eyes.

"It's fine, Hawke," Sebastian tells her. "Kinn, if you could show these people to some of our guest rooms, that would be appreciated."

"But... my lord!" this Kinn shouts. "Have you not heard!"

Hawke's eyes slit as she takes in this servant's disheveled appearance. What garments he dons are stained heavily with blood, likely missed by Sebastian due to the night, but Hawke has fought in wars and battled darkspawn. She knows blood when she sees it.

"Sebastian..." she mutters, still twirling her blade as she works this out in her head. Why would Flint Company be sent to slay the son that is _not_ the heir? Politically it makes little sense. And as understanding settles around her, she does not leave her position before Sebastian.

"Heard what?" Sebastian demands, his eyes narrowing.

"Sebastian-"

"Hawke, please," he interrupts her.

"W-We thought you dead, my lord! We thought the Vael name was forever finished!"

"_What are you talking about?_" Sebastian hisses.

"Sire, my lord, my _Prince_, your parents and brother - we came upon them this morning, slain."

The air thickens with tension and Hawke groans. She must give him credit, however. Were it her family slain, she would be tearing down anything that surrounded her; as savage as an ogre, as rabid as a blight wolf. However, a quick, sweeping glance reveals that this may still be the case.

"Have you checked the estate?" Hawke demands of Kinn.

"Yes, my lady. Quite thoroughly. Beyond the servants, there are no others within. We know of every nook and cranny that can be used to hide within. Whoever did this, left."

As mercenaries would. They would have no reason to remain once the task was completed. And if they knew Sebastian would not be found here, they would go to him. But it is better to be safe than sorry - "Isabella? Varric? Dread?"

"On it," they whisper together before rushing off toward the darkened estate with Dread close at the their heels.

"Sebastian..." Hawke whispers, turning and dropping a hand down on the man's arm. His eyes snap to hers, clouded with so many emotions. His bowed mouth presses into a hard line, his jaw set with anger.

"Leave me," he hisses into the darkness, those eyes flashing with contempt.

"But-"

"Go!" he shouts. "Kinn, show them to their rooms. Then return to me."

Kinn snaps straight before waving them into the estate. "F-Follow me, if you please."

Hawke casts a final glance on Sebastian, noting the fine tremor that runs a constant pace beneath his skin. She doesn't know him well enough to offer comfort but she drops her hand down on his arm once more, unflinching when that hardened gaze sweeps down on her.

"My father was murdered, too," though she doesn't know why she's saying this. What's more surprising is the softening to his face as though it actually does help. "My sister as well," she continues. "If I can do... anything-"

"No, Hawke," his voice is a little calmer. "Not right now, but thank you. I just... I need to be alone... to process... to-"

She nods, kind enough not to point out the break in his voice. When her father was found slain in the fields within Lothering, she'd been close to losing her mind. Only Carver had been able to get through to her and even then, she'd pushed him away as well.

Her fingers twine with his for the barest of moments and then she turns and follows after Kinn.

* * *

-.-

-**Anders**-

* * *

There's a faint knock on the door and Anders barely manages to swallow his grin before turning to it. Somehow he just knows it's Hawke and part of him _is_ surprised. After hearing about Sebastian's parents, he'd wondered if she would come.

"Come in," he calls, his arms slanting over his chest as he curves against the wall, waiting for the moment that door opens. It creaks as it does, and a hooded head slides through the small slit. He barely catches the flash of her eyes from beneath the fresh cloak before she darts in and seals the door.

His heart leaps wildly about, thundering desperately in his chest the moment she crosses the room, those lucent eyes and flushed cheeks pinning him to the spot.

"Hawke," he murmurs, allowing his surprise to enter his voice.

She clearly hears it and pauses at the door, fingers grazing the finely grained wood. "If you want me to go, I will. I just... after everything, the deep roads, Cousland, Sebastian... I don't want to wait any longer. We never know when..." her voice breaks and she nods, barely making eye contact with him as though she actually thinks he would turn her away. The very thought is laughable.

He swallows, his body warming with the thought of _finally_ - just, finally.

"Neither do I," he whispers, his heart thumping at the sight of her grin.

How willingly she comes to him - how _eagerly_. His mouth dries with the thought of finally having her after _so _long imagining this moment. How many times has he lain beneath the stars, thinking of _her_, though he hadn't even known her name. And now, here she stands, as tangible as he.

He's tasted her before, yet none of those moments will compare to now. Her hands fall gently onto his chest, fingers rolling over the soft feathers of his jacket. She flicks her eyes up to him, teeth setting into that plump lower lip. A groan falls from him and he sweeps down, determined to free her lip from its prison. She tastes of Starkhaven's finest cognac - a most divine sapor they'd had with dinner, and he drinks from her, his head growing dizzy as though she is the ale.

His fingers tremble as they reach for the assortment of buckles and clasps that hold together her outfit. He just wants to rid her of every last article of clothing covering her. More than anything, he wants to see her stretched beneath him, face flushed with want and body quivering with need. Belts, sashes, cinchures, and straps, all fall away under his eager ministrations. For so long he's imagined ridding her of the many different layers and accessories she adorns. And it seems with every layer, he finds a never ending stock of daggers, all tied into places he _never_ would have thought to look.

He curves back, drinking in every little bit of her - reddened lips, blushing cheeks, and half-lidded eyes. It's almost too much and he swallows, forcing his heart to slow. He's seen her hair down once before, but even then it was tucked beneath the hood of her tunic. Now, she has it swept off her face and twisted into a messy knot. His hands climb the smooth, dusky column of her neck and settle into the offensive loop. It's a simple thing, a small catch, and suddenly he can't breathe as he watches her darkened hair fall like a spill of ink over her shoulders and down her back.

_Finally_, with her armor heaping in a large pile of leather, wool, and weapons, all that remains is his _Hawke_, in nothing more than a peasant blouse, leggings, and boots. Never has he seen her in such a casual state and his heart thumps with the image before him; hair hanging low on her back, flushed cheeks, and _peaceful_. She's always ready for battle, always prepared to fight, it's refreshing to see her in a relaxed state. But the _smell_ of her, fresh from her bath, tasting of vanilla orchids and citrus - his mouth waters with anticipation. He wants to ask her why she donned her armor, if she intended to come to him, but with the state of the mansion, with Sebastian's family's murder, he knows the answer.

Velvet eyes lift to his and a sheepish smile quirks her lips. He _knows_ he needs to be gentle with her, only he's not entirely sure he can be. Nearly a year he's spent in her company, and in that time he's never been with any other. He's never _thought_ of any other beyond her. Now, she stands before him, and he feels almost... lost as to how to progress.

Apprehension fills her eyes and she steals a step back, casting a dark look over her shoulder. "If you want me to go -"

His response is little more than a low snarl and he clutches at her hips, yanking her flush against him before chasing after her mouth, swallowing her words. She melts against him; a small, pleased sound falling against his lips, fingers twining around his neck.

His fingers fall to the hem of her loose blouse with a renewed fervor and he yanks it over her head, clenched fingers pressing it into the small of her back. They stumble backward, their balance off-kilter as she struggles to remove her boots without breaking from the kiss. Anders' lips quirk and he stoops down, grasping at the heel of her boot. Her startled gasp rises as she suddenly hops on one foot to keep her footing.

"Anders!" she laughs, her hands curving over his shoulders.

He pulls off the first, tossing it aimlessly over her shoulder before reaching for her second. Not moments after she's barefoot, he removes her leggings and climbs back up her length, stealing her mouth once more, vaguely noting how she's lost a few inches without her knee-highs.

For the first time ever, Marian Hawke stands nude before him, though she hardly pauses to give him even the smallest of moments to drink her in. Instead her hands find their way to his own clothing, and piece by piece she slips them off. And just as he did with her, her fingers come to rest in his hair and she loosens the tie, spilling his hair forth in a golden wave.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," she whispers against his mouth. "Ever since I realized it was you at the ball."

Oh, Maker, the ball. As if he needs to be reminded of her that night. "You were exquisite that night," he murmurs. "You _are_ exquisite."

She presses her naked body against his and winds her arms around his neck, stretching to reach for him. His fingers spark unintentionally with a gentle heat and soft flames coil up her flesh, her curves burnishing into a deep bronze. The sight of his fire glowing over her skin catches his breath and when she doesn't recoil from him, he falls a little more in love with her.

His lips drag down the dusky column of her neck, teeth nibbling against the fluttering pulse threading beneath her skin. Oh Maker, her taste! He never would have thought vanilla and citrus could combine into something so delectable. The sweet scent lingers but beneath it, he can still find her own personal scent.

His hands sweep down the length of her back and fill with her rear, lifting her into the air. A soft giggle warms his cheek as those firm legs latch around his waist and cling to him. He straightens, leading her back toward his bed, all the while allowing his lips to work their way down over her neck and over her collarbone. When a distinct seam takes shape beneath his lips, he pauses.

His knees bend when they meet the bed and he lowers down, unable to look away from the jagged lump forever outlined into her skin. Alistair's words return to him - the story of the darkspawn arrow and how Cousland had to dig out the fractured tip with his blade. In retrospect she's lucky not to have been tainted. Just the thought makes Anders' flesh crawl.

"Anders?" she whispers, her hands rising to cup his cheeks and turn his face up toward hers.

So beautiful in the flickering firelight as it casts a coy glow over her. He tamps back the wave of fear he feels, realizing how close she _really_ had been to dying and returns to his task. One hand comes up to tangle in her hair and he smiles, his tongue laving against the ridged scar hovering over her breast until it gleams. Her breath catches, fingers tightening against him, but it's nothing compared to her gasp when he finally takes the peak of her breast into his mouth, tongue lavishing over her dusky nipple. His lids fall shut and his fingers dig into her back, holding her against him as he teases the tight nub. Her head falls back, hair grazing against his fingers, offering up as much of herself to him as she can.

His hands graze down the smooth length of her back, running over the faint curve of her spine, down to the swell of her rear. He paints down her tawny thighs before climbing the inner, more forbidden path. She trembles against him, her anticipation palpable, and he has to remind himself to go slow, for fear of hurting her. The tips of his fingers rest just beneath her, and he revels at the sound of her quickened breath as she _waits_ for him. It's the slightest caress, barely even a touch against her center, yet it drags a low, tuneless moan from her - one that catches his heart.

He releases her breast and shifts back, just enough to watch her face when a single finger delves between her folds. Her eyes fly open, her lower lip caught between her teeth once more. But there's a faint coloring of her cheeks and a catch of breath that tells him exactly what she's feeling. His hooded eyes brighten with pleasure and he drops down once more, claiming her other breast with just as much fervor.

Her hand settles between her knees and her warm fingers close around his length, immediately moving to his rhythm. His chest hitches and his stomach warms with her touch. After months imagining this, he realizes how far off he'd been. His mouth slides away from her breasts and he drags it up over her collarbone before chasing after her silken lips. The promise of her touch, the feel of her hand moving against him, in tune to him, wakens his magic. He's been with women in his past - plenty, in fact. But not _once_ since merging with Justice. And while he cannot even sense the spirit on the edge of his consciousness, his body warms with his magic either way. Lost to the sensation she brings him and the pulsing of his power, he dares to slide a second in, his groin thickening when another pleasured moan falls from her mouth into his. He strokes her, his thumb moving gently against her most sensitive spot to which he's rewarded with a gratifying whimper.

She breaks from the kiss and releases him, her hands shoving at his chest before she rides him down onto the bed. A dark curtain of hair spills forward, veiling them from the rest of the world until it is only them, together.

"There's something I've always wanted to try," her words fall on him with a perfumed air.

He dares to quirk a single brow at first, but both shoot up when she starts sliding down the length of his body, pausing only to flick a glance up at him before taking him into her mouth. The hot enclosure of her mouth is just perfect and his hip rise, meeting her descent halfway. His head falls back against the bed, eyes fluttering shut as he enjoys the sensations he's cut himself off from for far too long. Her tongue swirls over his tip and he can't help but watch as his length slides between those reddened lips, vanishing into the depths of her mouth before sliding back out again. He is distantly aware that he is glowing, his skin a dazzling blue that pulses to the winged beat of his heart, and that his breath is ragged and strident. Hawke releases her hold on him, shifting up to stare down at him, those sinful lips parted in awe. And then her hands fall on him once more, fingers tracing the glowing cracks in his skin, running a gentle path from him shoulders down to his navel before sweeping back up. Beryl light casts upon the walls and as she climbs over him, her skin is flush with it as well.

"Anders..." she whispers, those velvet eyes alight with veneration.

She positions herself and just when it looks as though she's about to lower, his luminous hands ensnare her waist and hold her still. "Marian..." he whispers, refusing to use her surname at a time like this. He wants her, badly, but he's afraid of hurting her. And there's a part of him that is still coherent enough to fear this.

Hawke swallows his words with a swift kiss that fractures what little sanity he possesses. She lowers slowly, sinking between his legs, and Anders can't find enough breath for the groan hovering on the edge of his swollen lips. She hangs there, frozen in time for a blessed second, her eyes screwed shut as she conforms around him. He can feel it and oh, Maker, it's almost too much after so long. Inch by inch, she lowers, her head tipped back and lips pressed into a tight line. It's just as he feared and he's about to speak once more when she begins to move against him, her hands braced against his chest for support. Anders' heart stops entirely for a beat, only restarting when she drops her clouded gaze back down on him.

She finds her own pace, moving at her discretion, one he finds much too slow - as if she means to test his control. The feel of her sliding over him, drawing out the pleasure, is maddening. And for fear that he may do something foolish, his hands slide beneath the pillows above his head, fingers clenching into the fabrics as though it will keep him from stealing the lead. He would not change this for all the world and he forces himself to lie still beneath her and endure this achingly slow pace that may kill him.

Her hands drift to his stomach, hips rolling sinuously over him, dragging out a sharp gasp. His jaw sets, muscles leaping as he struggles against the desire to snatch her up and spill her down onto the covers. Her lips twist into a mischievous grin - she knows exactly what she is doing to him.

Growling under her breath, he does just that, but he still remembers to take care as he fills her, watching her face for any sign of pain.

Her fingers drag across the landscape of his shoulders and dig into his flesh. The pace Anders sets is quite a bit quicker and her face flushes with pleasure.

"I won't break," she whispers so quietly he almost misses it.

For a brief moment, he debates teasing her as she had done him, but at the last moment, his need overcomes him. He relinquishes control, his hips driving down onto hers. The sounds she makes, they drive him mad - pure, unequivocal passion and felicity. He buries himself in her with equal abandon, his heart leaping when his name pours from her lips. But it isn't only that. He can feel her tightening around him and the next moment he sinks into her, she clamps down and her eyes squeeze shut. Her hands fist into the covers the moment he stoops down over her and steals her mouth, feeling every nuance of her body as she finishes around him. Her teeth drag over his lower lip, hips shifting erratically beneath his, fingers rising to grip his hair. He breaks from the kiss only for her to bury her face into his neck. Her fervid cry fills the room in a familiar song and that's all it takes. He'd been hovering on that brink, _so_ close to falling off the edge, and the sound of her voice only pushes him over. He gives a final buck and loses himself within her, relinquishing himself to the rabid emotion in the shape of one Marian Hawke, threatening to swallow him up.

Slowly the world begins to return to him, though he has no way of knowing how long it takes. All he knows is that his breathing begins to slow, the azure glow fades, and his eyes open to find Hawke beneath him. Her eyes may be closed but a blessed smile curls those lips and a reddened blush only darkens her already olive skin. When those lids finally open, he finds himself speared once more by the clarion depths, refracting the warm array of light from the fire. His entire life he's sworn to himself that he will never willingly let himself be caged, he will never fall prisoner to anyone that dares ensnare him, yet he feels the ties snaking around him nonetheless. He's fallen in love with Marian Hawke - if he's willing, does that make him a prisoner?


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: So it's time for a little bit of Anders' past to come back and bite them in the tushy. I know this story is BAMFY Anders, but it still needs to be **Anders**, so this chapter is mostly about that, and establishing the emotional connection between him and Hawke. I feel it should also be stated that Anders addresses something in this chapter about his past. This was written by Jennifer with BioWare, I'm just referencing it :) if you're interested, google Anders Short Story Dragon Age. Should be the first link. If you can't find it and want to - drop me a line and I'll fire the link off to you. _

_I hope you enjoy and thank you again, so much, for everyone who is following along :) Please don't forget to let me know what you think, I do so adore hearing back from those that are reading along. _

* * *

Chapter 22

-**Hawke**-

* * *

She's warm - almost too much so. Her skin is flush and sodden with small beads of moisture collecting at the back of her neck. This isn't what wakes her though, it isn't even the heavy weight slung over her hip in the shape of a toned arm. No, it's the muffled whimpers rising next to her and the erratic thrashing of legs. The tenuous sighs lift in volume and drag her wholly from the vivid splashes of color that always accompany her dreams. Her father's sonorous voice recedes into the hazy veil that separates the fade from reality and her eyes fly open at the unfamiliar mewling.

That weight hitched over her hip tenses and she's nearly flung off the bed when the arm shoves at her. Her fingers dig into the covers and she fixes herself, rising up onto her elbows and shifting to take in the pale stretch of limbs and flesh. Her eyes begin at the bottom of the bed, with the toes poking out from the sheets before climbing up the bare calves to his covered thighs and rear. His trim waist is nude and she follows the swell up to his back where she finds -

_Scars_.

Horror coats her stomach in a thick layer that threatens to surge up like whitewaters. Only at the last moment does she manage to swallow it, for fear of Anders waking and seeing the coil of her lips and stern, creased brow.

A tapestry of twisted white skin winds the pale expanse of his back, from the faintest ones that curl over his hip to the largest that stretch across his width in a meshed design. Her hand closest to him lifts and hovers in the distance between them, her breath sharp like a woman who has stepped too close to fire. In all the time she's known him, he's not once been around her shirtless so she hadn't known he'd been maimed in such a fashion. How could she have missed this last night? Granted, she'd been otherwise distracted and a bit more concerned with his front, but seeing this... her cheeks blush with chagrin and her lips press tightly together in silent reprimand of her ignorance. She wants to turn her sight away from such a thing, show him that it means little to her - beyond angering her that such things occur - but the image is too alarming. Gifts imparted upon him from the templars? He speaks so little of his life within the tower, but it seems the only explanation. And further proof to her father's reasoning for keeping him and Bethany hidden from their reach.

Anders' head shifts against the pillow and her gaze drifts the rest of the way to find his face pinched, even buried against the soft fabrics as it is. A _blightmare_, perhaps? It does seem different than what she witnessed in the deep roads. There's no glow of fire swelling over his skin and he appears far more distressed.

She's never seen him in such a state - vulnerable and unsound. Underground, he'd seemed larger than life, as though nothing could touch him down there. He'd made her feel... _safe_, knowing that he was there to watch over her. He'd been so intense with his instructions to her, so firm with his rules that she not step out of sight. Yet, the sight reposed before her now is quite the opposite and a sudden urge to love him scours through her heart.

Incoherent words spill from his lips in a tangle of noises that are hard to interpret. Hawke can only make out a few and it sounds as though he's begging, for what she doesn't know. But when _her _name falls out, tangled within a tormented choke, her stomach drops and her fingers close that final distance, grazing against the offensive markings.

It all happens so fast, in a beryl haze of movements that obscures her vision. Her skin tightens when the air thickens, and before she can process all that is happening, the heavy weight of arms fuse around her waist. She's airborne, that's the only thing she can discern; wind whistles through her ears, warm bands of sunlight whisk over her skin, and the four poster bed blurs before her eyes. The iron grip releases her and she's pitched back, her body driven into the wall with enough force to empty her lungs. She's given little time to collect her thoughts before an oppressive weight presses into her throat, bearing down on the thin column and blocking her air.

She can't see past the blaze of light blinding her, but she knows it's Anders from the width of the arm pressed into her. Her hands lift from her sides, but she does not lash out at him, she could _never_...

Her fingers curl over his cracked flesh and he stills, though he does not release her. Slowly, the light begins to recede and within the shimmering air, a gleaming face appears. She's only witnessed him in this state twice before - the first in the Chantry, where she hadn't _seen_ anything, and the second in the deep roads, but that visit had been quite brief. This... this is different. Anders' typically tawny eyes are hidden from sight, shrouded by the breath of the fade, pouring from within. The cracks spread over his cheeks and lips and she realizes they pulse to the winged beat of _her_ heart.

"Anders..." she wheezes, barely able to sound his name around the hard line of his arm.

Those alien eyes narrow and his body curves closer to her.

A _foul_, brackish wind stems from him, as though _he_ is the window between the fade and reality. It howls around them in a cutting breeze, tearing under her sheet and through her hair.

"**You**," an abrasive voice entirely unfamiliar from the honeyed one she knows falls from those swart lips.

"Justice," she gasps, her fingers still clutching at his arm. It would not be difficult to untangle herself from this hold, but she fears escalating the issue and the last thing she wishes is to bring harm to Anders.

"**Why are you here?**" he demands.

Her eyes flick to the bed next to them before dropping down his length.

He bares his teeth and leans harder against the stretch of her neck until stars begin to take shape behind her eyes. "**You are a distraction. You take him away from his cause, away from those that require his assistance. I will not permit this any longer**!"

"It's not... up to - you," she chokes, squirming against the wall as she strives to find a full breath. Soon, she will have to extract herself from this awkward position, if she intends to _continue _breathing on a permanent basis.

"**You are not worth his time**!"

"He seems to - think... I am." Though, admittedly, that stings a little.

The spirit's face knots and he drifts closer, until their noses nearly touch. "**He believes he has fallen in love with you. This cannot come to pass. You are no mage, you will only distract him further**!"

Hawke's mouth gapes and for a moment she forgets that she needs air. Anders... _loves_ her?

"_Hawke!"_ a muffled voice rises from outside her door.

Anders' skin flares and his arm is suddenly gone from her throat. Hawke sucks in a grating breath and sinks bonelessly to the floor, clutching at the thick hem of the sheets. For a moment, she thinks Justice has retreated, but it appears she is mistaken when the door suddenly slams inward, and their room floods with people.

"_Andraste's dimpled butt cheeks, _Anders!" Varric chokes, his hand lifting between them to block out the view. "Cover yourself!"

A deep, racking cough assaults Hawke and she bows over her knees, sucking in another raspy breath.

"Well now, kitten, looks like you're having some fun," Isabela teases, though when Hawke's eyes lift, there's fear in the pirate's face. Everyone knows this is not for pleasure.

But it's the rigid statue at Isabela's back whose gaze she meets next, even as her fingers curve around the slender line of her neck, trying to ease the aching burn set into her flesh.

Pain crosses Alistair's face in a bright flash, his bowed mouth pressing down at the sight of Hawke crumpled against the wall. Their eyes meet for a single moment before she breaks contact, turning back to Justice. The sight of him hovering in the center of the room, his exposed body cast in bright whorls pouring from the beryl cracks in his skin, robs her of breath.

"Get out," Hawke orders in an abrasive voice, her hand cupping around her throat.

"What! Hawke-" Alistair argues.

"I said get _out_!" she shouts, wincing as she gathers her sheet and rises.

Justice's hand outstretches and the air in their room bends and pops as he draws on the veil. Hawke clamps down on her ears, barely managing to hold onto the thin material covering her. Viridian fire swells over his fist in a furious glare, fingers aglow with the strength of the fade.

Hawke's digits fetch into the sheets and she darts forward, throwing herself between the enraged spirit and her companions.

"_Justice, no!_" she shouts with entreaty, a single hand held between them as the only defense she can offer. Her daggers rest on the ground next to the ailing fire, but the thought of bearing a weapon against him makes her sick.

"**I know this one**," he bares his teeth once more, his entirely body coiling with the magic he draws from the veil. "**This one is a templar. This one would see us destroyed, would have **_**you**_** taken from us**."

Hawke startles, her eyes widening. "I thought I was nothing more than a distraction? Which is it?"

Silence settles over them and she fights not to wince when that face turns back to her. "**You **_**are **_**a distraction, and he **_**would**_** take you from us**!"

"It can't be both ways," she murmurs in a gravelly voice. "Either I am not worth his time or you fear me being taken."

The spirit's face contorts, brows dropping low over those voided depths that let her see right into the fade. If she isn't mistaken, he appears confused with her question, or perhaps with his silent answer.

Hawke's chin jerks over her shoulder and she feeds her companions the sternest look she can muster. "I said for you to leave."

"We can't just leave you here! Not with _him_! Hawke, please, he is _dangerous_, can't you see that!" Alistair cries.

She feels the air collect around her and scents the foul wind. She jerks back in time to step in Justice's path once more. Her hand lifts again, her palm now prostrate against his excessively warm chest.

"**You will not leave this room alive, templar**!" he avows.

"Isabela, get him _out_ of here," Hawke snaps.

There's a scuffle at the door, but she doesn't lift her eyes from the raging spirit standing before her, afraid that if she does, Justice will follow through with his promise. Alistair's complaints are swallowed by the soft click of their door. But before it does, she hears a soft 'good luck' from her certain favorite dwarf.

"**Desist, woman, you will not **-"

Hawke does the only thing she can think of to put an end to this entire situation. She rises to the balls of her feet and chases after Justice's - or Anders' - mouth. The spirit startles. Confused, herself, as to her purpose of this, she tenses when tepid fingers ensnare her arms, his magic vanishing in a puff of smoke as his lips begin to shape around hers.

Her back is against the wall so quickly and just as she fears _Justice _delving further into this moment out of time, he breaks away and rests his brow against the swell of her shoulder. Her head falls back against the stone and a relieved sigh falls from her lips.

"Anders," she whispers, her hands coming up to cup the back of his head, holding him against her. Her fingers fall away from the nape of his neck and graze over his back, the aged welts running beneath her fingernails. His breath catches in the softest sound she's ever heard and then he's gone, the weight from her lifted as he stalks across the room.

So quickly he snatches his clothing up from the floor and jerks them on. "I-I'm sorry, Hawke-"

She winces at the use of her family name.

"I should go, this... this was a mistake."

Her eyes fly open just in time to watch him stalk toward the door. Heart in her throat, she darts off the wall so quickly, nearly tripping on the overhanging sheet. Just as she did with Justice, she slides between him and the door, placing her back against it.

"Move, Hawke," he grumbles, his eyes fixed on the floor. He won't even _look_ at her and she tries not to focus on the pain that brings.

"Anders," she calls his name in her new voice, jumping when his head snaps up, his gaze flashing with heat.

"_What_..." he drifts off, his fingers lifting to hover between them. This isn't the first time he's witnessed bruises blooming over her throat. But his face breaks and she knows why. This time, _he_ is the cause.

"Justice," she murmurs. "He-"

His jaw sets, his lips pressing together until they whiten.

"It doesn't matter. Don't go," she presses, hoping that if she ignores the rasping voice, so will he.

"Hawke, just let me-"

Her fingers catch against his and she twines their hands together, lifting it to her mouth and pressing her lips against his palm. "So Justice came out to visit, so what?"

"_So what!_" he sputters, his teeth bared as he wheels away from her. "Perhaps those bruises aren't evidence enough of what can happen when I lose control. All because I was startled you were in bed with me!"

She shrugs, even though he doesn't see it and she steps toward him, still clinging at the sheets. "In case you've forgotten who you're speaking with, I'm almost always bruised-"

"But _not_ by _me_!" he snarls, his hurried steps carrying him across the room to the large picture window overlooking the Vael estate.

She slowly follows in his wake, afraid his anger might welcome Justice back once more. "It's a learning curve, we can-"

"The last time I awoke like that I slaughtered more than a dozen men - templars and wardens alike, Hawke." His voice takes on a desolate tone and she struggles against her desire to go to him, to take him into her arms, to promise him they _will _make it work. "I can _still_ taste their blood, like honeyed wine. I tore their heads from their bodies with little thought and less effort. I came back to myself, standing in a forest that was burning down around me, surrounded by death."

"T-That was a long time ago," she told him, afraid to admit even to herself that his words frightened her.

"It wasn't even six months ago, Marian."

Her shoulders round at the sound of her name. Ironic, seeing as she absolutely loathes when anyone else addresses her as such. "But that isn't who you are now," she tells him in a gentle tone.

"You don't _know_ that. You don't know who I am. Any day I could wake up a-and -" his voice breaks off.

Hawke crumples at the sound of his broken state and she dares those final steps, allowing for her fingers to fall against his shoulders. She tugs on his coat, hoping to turn him, and he obliges, though not entirely willingly.

There's nothing but pain scribed across his face. It bleaches him of color and deadens his eyes, but at least he isn't glowing.

"I want you to listen to me," she tells him. "And tell Justice to listen up as well."

A faint flicker of confusion twists his brow but he doesn't speak.

"I'm not going anywhere. You can try to scare me off, either one of you, but I _know_ the man you are. You are the healer of Darktown who suffers endlessly beneath the weight of all those refugees and every other denizen that need help. You are the man that adamantly insisted on coming with me into the deep roads, putting your own life at risk, to keep me safe. You are the man that risked your own life once again to save a friend in need, even against the templars and Chantry. And you are the man that wants nothing more to make the world into a better place for mages."

She can feel the fervor of her words, the heat crawling beneath her skin just from being near him, the desire uncurling in her stomach like a great cat, stretching after napping in the sun. She twines her fingers together at the back of his neck and draws him down, claiming his lips in a slow, impassioned kiss. Though she wishes for nothing more to tear those clothes off him again, she knows it can't be about that. She pours all that she feels into the kiss, melting against him so he can feel the desperate thump of her heart. She hears his breath catch and his fingers twist into the sheet tied around her.

Slowly, she breaks away and her lids crack so she can gaze up at him. "You..." she says into his mouth, brushing their lips together once more in a slow tempered motion. "You-" her words fail her as she struggles with what to say to show him what he means to her. "You're the most caring man, with the largest heart, I've ever met," she whispers finally. "And I keep my father in high regard. If given the chance, I would be lucky to spend the rest of my days with you."

His eyes fly open, his lips shaping soundless words before he finally finds his voice, gruff and low as it is. "You _can't_ mean that. I-I'm a mage... I'm an abomination."

Her lips purse and she pauses, wondering how to get her point across. "My father was a mage and he was one of the best people I've ever met. Never have I met anyone who cared so strongly for his family, who loved them until his dying breath-" her chest hitches and she blinks back the hot tears pricking at her eyes. She's _never_ spoken of her father in such a fashion, not even with Carver. "My sister was a mage as well and she had the purest heart of anyone I'd ever met-" her words falter once more. Speaking of her family scalds her chest and she sucks in a sharp breath, hoping to douse the rousing flames.

A trembling sigh brushes her face and Anders drops down, pressing his brow against hers. "A Hawke family trait, I'm sure. I can't imagine anyone with a purer heart than you."

Her lips twitch and she watches as his countenance flashes with emotion and unspoken thoughts. "You never knew Bethany," she offers a watery chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood a little. "If she was here, you wouldn't have looked twice at me."

His eyes flicker with the barest token of alacrity. "I very much doubt that."

She lifts her shoulders in a faint shrug and drags her knuckles over the swell of his cheek.

"You really want to stay with me, even after... all this?" he whispers.

Laughter rises from her throat like a bubbling stream. "After _this_? Just what do you think happened here today? It was no different than an unexpected in-law coming to visit."

He laughs - finally, and the sound does a funny thing to her heart. But the light dims when his fingers fall against the base of her throat. His energy slips over her skin. It feels like fingers caressing her from the inside and she melts into it, sighing as the swelling of her neck fades.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he admits when his fingers slide away. A strange far-off look blanks his face, one that lifts Hawke's brow.

"Anders?"

He blinks, his eyes sharpening as he returns to reality. "Sorry. I was listening to Justice."

For a moment, she holds her tongue, digesting the information that they can speak intimately like that to one another. "And... what did he have to say?"

A faint smile steals his lips and his arms wind around her waist, drawing her into his chest. "It isn't so much anything you said. He's... confused."

_Confused?_ "About what?"

"You. He heard what you said and he doesn't know what to think at the moment."

Her gaze drops, fixating on the ground by their feet. "I'm more interested in what _you_ think."

He's so still, she doesn't know what to make of it. Finally, his voice lifts and the resonance alone ripples under her skin. "Sweetheart, I'll _show_ you what I'm thinking."

**-.-**

When she's finally able to slink out the door, the corridor is abandoned. She only hopes her companions hadn't sat out there and _listened_ to all that happened after she kicked them out. That would be... embarrassing, to say the least. What worries her most is Isabela - that pirate doesn't know the first thing about privacy.

She barely remembers the paths to take. Last night, everything is a blur up until the moment she crossed into Anders' room. After many incorrect turns and retractions, she finds herself in the common room. She's not sure who she expects to see there, but finding Sebastian leaning against the stone wall, his empty stare focused on the flickering embers of the failing fire, her chest catches. She _knows_ how it feels to lose family, and while she hadn't lost them all at once, losing them throughout a stretch of time, one after another, is likely just as painful. Her father had passed four years ago and Bethany just over a year and a half. So close together... and still so soon.

"Leave me," Sebastian's grave voice claws through her chest, shredding the tower she's erected around those memories so she'd never have to live them again.

"_Marian-" her mother gasped, her firm arms snatching around her waist and yanking her away. _

_She struggled within her grasp, fingers like claws as they dug into the grip pulling her away. "Leave me!" she howled, her cheeks wet with tears._

_The tall grass veiled the recumbent body - the one she'd watched crumple from where she stood atop their neighbor's house. Her heart had stopped dead the moment the silver armored battalion descended on him. Her father's chin had lifted and those eyes, the same ones she'd seen peering back at her in the mirror, had darted right to hers. He knew where she was. He always did. _

_He'd fought, of course he'd fought. Her father would never abandon them - never allow them to take him to the circle. But the templars surrounded him in numbers far greater than any mage could face and she'd watched in horror as that great claymore slid through his chest. She memorized every moment afterward; the small half step he stumbled, his hands curving around his chest, the flickering glow of his hands as he tried to heal himself, and the sound of his cry when they smited him._

_She couldn't remember leaping down to the ground or rushing toward him, but she remembered her mother latching onto her and struggling to pull her away. One templar stopped at the stairs leading to the Imperial Highway, his helmet resting under his arm. For a moment she thought pain twisted his face, but then he shook it out and his lips curled into a malevolent grin. A _grin_. She stopped struggling them and committed his face above all else to memory with the promise of feeding him her steel should they ever meet again in life. Pale eyes, like ice, watched her as she suddenly broke free of her mother's hold and dove through the grass, the ground rising to meet her knees when she fell at his side. _

_He was still breathing, his eyes lifted to the noonday sky above. _

"_Bethany," her sister's name fell from her lips without thought. And her father snatched up her hand and pressed it against his mouth. _

_He shook his head, the barest of motions. "Do not... attract their attention - to her," he gasped. _

_The templars... they were still there. _

"_Father," she sobbed, her fingers fisting in his loose, wet shirt. His blood bloomed over the material and pooled beneath him, leached away by the very soil._

"_Take care of them, shadow," he wheezed, reverting to his pet name for her. It sealed her throat, her tongue swelling with horror when the realization dawned that she'd never hear him call her it again - 'his little shadow'. _

"_Malcolm!" her mother whimpered as she sank next to them, her hands hovering above his chest as though she could heal him from desire alone. _

_But he was gone, those familial eyes clouding over. _

_Hawke fell back into the grasses, her trembling fingers hovering against her lips. This... this... wasn't happening. It couldn't be... her father could not be dead. What would she tell Carver, and Bethany? What would they do? _

"_I'm sorry," she whispered and her mother's eyes darted up, half-veiled with tears. "I'm sorry."_

"I'm sorry," she repeats those words, though they aren't meant for Sebastian, but for her father. Sorry for not being strong enough to protect him, sorry for not being able to keep Bethany safe, to save her when she needed it most. Sorry for letting her brother join the renowned order of Grey Wardens instead of forcing him to stay with their family. One by one they are falling away from each other.

Sebastian's head jerks up and she returns to this reality just in time to witness the softening of his face. "Hawke. No, forgive me. I didn't realize it was you. Come in."

She blinks, attempting to wipe clean whatever emotions linger on her face. "Are you sure?" she asks softly. She doesn't argue with him, she remembers the overwhelming frustration she'd suffered under when those that came to bring her sympathies told her how she should feel, what she needed, what she should do...

"Yes," he dips his head in acquiescence. "I want... to thank you."

She startles, her steps fumbling as she makes her way to him. _Thank_ _her?_ She hasn't done anything worthy of that.

"I said I wished to be alone last night and you honored that request."

Her shoulders loosen and her lips set to a smirk. "I take it few did?"

He sighs and shifts back toward the fire, the warm glow burnishing his downcast face. "I believe the only one of your companions that did not seek me out is your Anders."

She clears her throat, her hand rising to hide the surprised twist to her lips. "My apologies, I should have made sure they did not disturb you."

He rakes a hand through his hair before dropping it back down to his side. "It doesn't matter. They only meant well. I am glad you're here. Kinn has prepared the horses for you to leave at your earliest convenience. But I would ask a favor from you."

Her brows shot toward the ceiling. "A favor?"

"Two, in fact. And if you agree to them, I will not require compensation for the horses."

Her head dips. "Let's hear them."

"First, I'm not sure if you or your companions took notice but the circle tower here has been burned to the ground. Many of our mages and templars have taken refuge in Kirkwall."

Hawke falls still, her hooded eyes widening as she takes him in. "When did this happen?"

"Not a fortnight ago. I have received word that a group of these mages has escaped and I would ask that you seek them out upon your return to Kirkwall. It does not look good on Starkhaven to have apostate mages running about in other cities."

She swallows, not entirely sure how she feels about this task given to her. "Sebastian, apostates aren't... the end of the world, you know," she murmurs, thinking of her father, Bethany, and of Anders now as well.

"I am aware, serrah. However, it is my job now to keep peace. And your Knight-Commander Meredith is quite perturbed by this little development."

"And the second task?" she questions, already sorting out how to deal with these mages should she actually find them.

"This one is the most important. I have people looking into the coin purse behind my family's slaughter. When I find word of them, I would ask that you deal with them. I would myself, if not for the political ramifications of the Prince of Starkhaven openly avenging his family."

Her stomach drops with those words. She, to this day, recalls that templar's face, just waiting for the moment when the Maker delivers him into her lap. Imagining the thought of someone else slaying him... makes her ill. But she isn't a prince.

"I will do what I can," she promises him. "Send word once you establish the source."

"Of that, you have my promise, Hawke," he snarls into the fire. "So, until we hear from each other again, I bid you well and luck on your travels."

She dips her head and turns, about to round up the group when his voice calls her back.

"I was not exaggerating the danger in crossing the Vimmark Mountains. I would ask again that you reconsider taking the merchant route. But... I think I understand now, the strength of your desire to seek out your remaining family. Please, send me word when you arrive safely, I would like to be kept informed."

"I can do that," she promises.

"And Hawke," he calls her back again. She turns once more, wishing she could do something to quell his pain but knowing that to be an impossible task. "I do not simply mean on your return. I would enjoy remaining in contact with you, if you will allow me to write you."

Her tongue swells and for a moment she forgets to speak. Swallowing, she dares another step into the room. "I feel it only appropriate to inform you that I am-"

"Spoken for," he finishes with a vague wave of his hand. "I think that is quite obvious to anyone with eyes. I am simply speaking of friendship, Serrah Hawke."

She nods, releasing a pent up breath. "That I can give."

She sweeps out of the room, shivering the moment the brush of death falls away from her shoulders, and seeks out her companions.


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: **Edited Sept 20, 2012 to match Of Flame and Blade**_

* * *

**Chapter 23**

-**Hawke**-

* * *

Hawke's fingers twine into the fine-haired mane of her horse, gripping so tightly she's sure the poor beast can feel it. The softest protest huffs from his lips and his head twists as though trying to free himself of her grasp. She can't help it! The ground is so... very far away, and the foreign, erratic movements beneath her are jarring. She's simply thankful Alistair set a slow pace; it's unlikely she could handle anything beyond walking. They've already spoken about pushing to a trot and the words alone close Hawke's throat in horror.

Before they left Starkhaven, Kinn informed her that her horse's name is Drakon; a name that turned Anders' head. Even Alistair chuckled, which had been a relief. Since that morning's little... incident, the two Wardens have hardly spoken - it's been nothing more than incensed glares and tight-lipped words. Anders' memory is lacking, if his reaction to the bruises on her throat are an indicator of anything. And he hasn't inquired further, which is probably for the best, although the awkward silences have gotten a touch tiring.

"I'm... going to scout ahead," Anders murmurs at her side. Hawke's chin jerks up to him, her eyes widening. Had he read her thoughts? Not exactly a power mages possess, but it's simply too coincidental. "There's something I'm sensing and I just want to make sure we aren't heading into a trap."

Sebastian's apprehensive gaze and hushed words distract her for a moment. He'd been quite concerned with this path and the fool she is, she'd forgotten to question what there is to fear.

Hawke slants a side-long glance his way, wondering just how much of that is true and how much is him avoiding the pointed stares. "Would you like someone to go with you?"

"I'll take Dread," he sighs before jabbing his horse forward and releasing a sharp whistle. Her mabari's eyes roll up to her and only when her head drops in a nod does he bound after Anders.

"_Well!_" Isabela's voice lifts next to her the moment Anders leaves. Ignoring her, Hawke's eyes distend at the sight of him effortlessly bounding across the terrain, one with the horse. Maker... she's never seen _anything _so enthralling in her life. For a brief moment, she entices herself with the thought of being ridden like that, her cheeks kindling with warm blood.

"Oh," a deep chuckle spills from her friend's lips. "And what dirty little thought just crossed your mind?"

"_What_?" Hawke chokes on her air, forcing her eyes away from the spine-tingling sight and over to Isabela. She seems to have long-since gotten over her discomfort with the horse and Hawke can't help but laugh, giving the smallest shake of her head. Gift the pirate something to mount and she masters it immediately.

"Oh, please!" Isabela scoffs, rolling her eyes. "I know that look. Never worn it, myself, but I'm not some fool woman who's gone off and gotten herself in trouble."

Hawke blinks, her face slackening as she repeats the words. "Gotten myself in trouble?"

"I knew you two were hot for each other, but I didn't realize it had progressed into..." her lip curls with disgust, "... love."

That's the second time today someone has brought up that word and Hawke forces herself to swallow past the lump forming in her throat.

"I'd suggested you polish his staff thinking you two would get it out of your system and move on."

"Isabela!" Hawke gasps, her head whipping around to regard her friend once more.

"Oh, kitten, I have _many, many_ more euphemisms than that, I promise you-"

"I don't want to know," Hawke grumbles. "Look, can we just... not talk about this? All of you," she lifts her voice so they all can hear her.

Alistair shifts on his horse, a blank face seeking her out. Anders isn't the only one he isn't speaking with at the moment and she finds his attitude tiresome. Varric, on the other hand, seems to be all grins. It seems Sebastian had traveled with dwarves before and he offered them a special saddle so Varric could keep to his own horse. He'd been grateful; apparently Isabela's hands had wandered a little too close to his chest hair the previous day, atop their shared horse.

"What happened this morning was..." she shrugs, not sure where she is going with this. "Well, it doesn't matter. It's over, Anders and I are fine. So let's all just put it behind us and focus on getting home. Does that sound agreeable?"

Isabela cracks up, draping over the neck of her horse. "Oh, kitten, you _really_ don't understand men, in the slightest."

"Rivaini..." Varric warns, drawing his horse up next to theirs.

"Oh, no," she winks, shifting in her seat to regard Hawke completely. "She brought this on herself. Maybe Mother Amell never explained the birds and the bees properly to you, honey, but I thought you understood a little better than _that_, what with your living in the trees type lifestyle."

"What are you _talking_ about," Hawke sighs, swiping at her eyes. The woman could be so tiring sometimes.

"How should I put this in words you'll understand..." a finger taps against her chin as her eyes cloud with thought. Hawke means to interrupt whatever lesson she thinks she's imbuing upon her when the pirate's face brightens. "I'm sure you've seen two bucks fighting over a bitch in woods, right?"

"_Isabela!"_ Alistair barks, his hands wrenching on the reigns as he directs his horse toward them, clearly understanding something Hawke hasn't clued into yet. "That is-"

"Yes," Hawke impedes him, suddenly curious where this line of thought is going.

"And how do they handle it?"

"Marian-" Alistair practically begs.

"They fight," Hawke states emotionlessly, ignoring Alistair's pleas. "The winner claims the female-" her eyes widen and dart to Alistair, his face grim like a carved mask.

"Do they ever just give up?" Isabela continues to needle.

"No," Hawke whispers, unable to tear her eyes from Alistair's suddenly tempered eyes.

"And there we have it!" the pirate announces. "So, no offense, kitten, but there won't be any 'putting it behind us', not for _him_, anyways," she jerks her thumb over her shoulder, her mouth tugging into a wide grin.

Hawke's lips move soundlessly as she struggles to give voice to her unspoken words. The fight in the deep roads, while it isn't exactly a secret that Alistair has feelings for her, Hawke never thought they might be _those_ type of feelings. She'd thought she'd been clear in her intentions, obvious with where her heart lies. Is she wrong in this? Her head is so full of Anders, she'd never given thought to what Alistair might be suffering under. Knowing changes little, she is with Anders and has no intention of that ever changing, but being her friend, Hawke wonders if there's anything she can even say to make things right between them.

"Alistair..." his name falls from her lips in little more than a half-breath.

"Someone should make sure your mage is still alive," he suggests in a heated voice, silencing whatever words _hadn't_ been on the tip of her tongue. "Wouldn't want something to happen to him."

They share a brief glance, and for a single moment, Alistair lets the pain he's suffering under fill his eyes. It's as bright as the sun, how has she missed this? It isn't as though it would have changed anything between them - Anders is all she thinks about and had for the past three years, if she's being honest. But she would have been more... discrete, perhaps?

He wrenches away from her and corrects his horse's trajectory, giving her his back. Hawke's lip vanishes in the lurid depth of her mouth, her teeth pressing into it. She recognizes the dismissal and the hair on the back of her neck rises. It's one thing to let the Wardens lead the way underground, but the surface is _her _turf. With narrowed eyes, she forgets the disquiet she feels atop the horse and prods his side, rising in the stirrups every other step as Sebastian taught her. The general rocking motion sways her stomach but she tamps it back, keeping her eyes forward so not to stare at the ground. _The horse knows how to move over the terrain_, Sebastian had told her when she'd tensed over the rockier ground.

It doesn't take long for her and Drakon to find their balance and soon, she's moving as fluidly as Anders. Jubilation rises in her stomach and a triumphant chuckle bubbles from her lips. Drakon shakes his head, a snort falling from his lips; one that _almost_ sounds pleased. She relinquishes the rigid grip on his mane and gently grasps the reigns instead, her mouth pulling into a large grin when his speed increases.

_Maker_, the freedom! He moves like liquid beneath her and Sebastian had been right - the terrain barely slows them! She'd initially feared the beast would pitch them over the liberal amounts of rock and steep hills. But Sebastian simply directed her to carry her weight to the back when descending and forward when climbing. It made such perfect sense! Drakon dances beneath her, his tail whipping against her thighs as he prances about in excitement.

A smooth chuckle startles her and she chokes on her laughter, her fingers ensnaring his mane out of habit.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were lying to me and you've ridden before."

She curves over the saddle, her twinkling eyes seeking out Anders, lost to the sight of them burnished to a deep topaz. His mouth tugs upward and he directs his own horse - Kell - over to her.

"No, we just understand each other now," she chuckles as her hand pats his neck.

Snorting, he tosses his mane and flicks her again with his tail. She glances back to find their companions somewhat nearby - close enough, in fact, that she can still hear them talking. Had Anders heard...? Behind them, the city of Starkhaven fades into the backdrop, the houses and estates little dots in the distance.

She turns back to Anders, her smile dampening at the despairing look etched into his face. Everyone is so gloomy, it darkens her own mood.

"Did you hear all that?" she asks, jerking her head back over her shoulder.

His shoulders lift in a careless shrug. "Nothing I didn't already know."

Huffing under her breath, Anders' voice echoes in her head from the day they escaped the deep roads: _Don't fall now, Alistair might cry_. Why hadn't she connected the dots then? And the look burned into his face when he saw them together this morning...

She sighs, determined to change the conversation. "What were you sensing up here?" she questions, turning forward in her seat to stare out over the rolling hills they climb. The Vimmark Mountains grow closer and closer, they'll likely reach them before the sun set for the night.

"The Veil," he tells her. "It isn't dangerous yet, but it's thinning the closer we get to these mountains."

Her head jerks in his direction, the smile completely stolen from her face now. "You mean..."

He nods slowly. "We'll need to be on our guard, who knows what we'll find winding through these passes."

So, that's what Sebastian fears. Hawke had certainly been raised by her father, she knows all about the Fade and the Veil, or at least, more than the average person. Swallowing, she turns her eyes back to the mountains rising before them and the jagged peaks devouring the noonday sky.

"Anders," she murmurs, suddenly turning to him with a mischievous grin lighting up her face. The morose mood of the group is quite arduous, and she's tired of thinking about her father and Sebastian's family. Not only has she found a peaceful balance with Drakon, but she and Anders _finally_ were able to be together, as they are meant to be. And regardless of the small hiccup this morning, and the image of her father, her memories of the night before have sketched a permanent smile onto her face. "I'll race you," she whispers in a furtive voice, snickering when Dread's ears perk with the words, his muddy eyes shining with his own excitement.

How well she knows Anders. He turns to her, his eyes shining with anticipation once more. "You think after two minutes of _actually_ managing him, you can keep up with _me_?"

"Please!" she lets loose a warm laugh, curving over the saddle to steal his lips. "You've ridden your horse for just as much time as me."

His mouth pulls into a grin, his teeth flashing at her from between his lips, eyes so bright this close to him. "I'll still win."

"You're on," she whispers, her teeth catching against the lobe of his ear before cantering out of reach. "And if I win, what do I get?"

Kell trots toward her, guided by Anders' _very _talented and nimble fingers. "Oh, you want to make this interesting do you?"

Her teeth set into her lip and she nods, a melodious laugh echoing through the hills.

"Winner gets breakfast in bed," he decides.

"Loser decides what they're making!" she chimes in happily as her fingers grip at the reigns.

His brows dart toward the sky. "On the count of three?"

She nods, her knees pressing into Drakon's side. The beast practically vibrates with excitement and she can feel his muscles tensing. He's been itching to be let loose and she trusts that all she needs to do is guide him.

"To that large boulder," she says, directing Anders' eyes forward with the jerk of her chin.

"Deal," he laughs, his churlish mood abandoned. "One -"

"_Three!"_ she shouts, her knees immediately jabbing into Drakon's side.

Her horse shoots forward as though he'd known she'd intended to do that. Her hair whips back from her face and she closes the distance between her chest and Drakon, sinking low in the saddle just as Sebastian taught her. She balances forward as they climb a small hill and listens to the sound of his hooves thudding against the dirt paths.

The boulder sneaks up on her, so lost to the brisk mountainous winds raking over her face and creeping beneath her overtunic, that she doesn't notice. The moment they pass the end point, Hawke yanks on the reigns and straightens only to hear the thunderous assault of Anders' horse immediately behind her. She spins in her saddle, latching down onto her lip once more at the sight of his cocked brow and gaping mouth.

"You little _cheat!_" he laughs, dismounting a second later and dashing toward her.

A fluting gasp falls from her mouth when his hands suddenly close around her hips and yank her down, the leather groaning as she slides off it.

"I win because I cheat," she echoes Isabela's words as she finds her balance.

The look in his eyes, all heat and laughter, startles her heart. She can feel the press of his hands burning through her overtunic and her breath catches.

He steps into her, his looming presence backing her into the boulder. She ends up flush against it and tips her head back, her winged breath vacillating when his tawdry eyes rake down her length.

"Now, how should you pay for that?" he muses in his sinfully honeyed voice.

Hawke's mouth dries and her throat closes. _Oh, Maker_, the thoughts tumbling through her head, the _images_...

A blazing heat steals her cheeks and he chuckles softly, dipping down over her.

"I love that you _still_ blush," he growls before snagging her mouth. His tongue slips between her lips and entangles with hers in a lascivious dance. Her entire body lights with his touch, the heat of her desire escaping her throat in a pleasured moan. Her fingers ensnare the feathers of his jacket and she yanks him as close as possible, her leg notching around his thigh and jerking him forward.

Laughing, he comes up for air with a fervid flush burned into his face. "Eager, are we?"

Her lids droop low as her hands sweep up around his neck, fingers twining at his nape. He swallows his laughter the moment his eyes take in the sight of her, devouring him with her eyes. Her gaze dips to his chest, before dropping lower to his waist and hips. It wouldn't take _much,_ and she can see herself untwisting the ties to his breeches and shoving her overtunic aside -

"Marian," he chokes on her name, his voice nearly a growl by the time she drags her eyes back up. His have darkened to that swirling topaz that she recognizes as desire. "Not... not here," he groans. "Isabela, Varric... they're-"

She swallows back her own and pushes off the boulder. "'Kay," she chuckles as she skips toward Drakon. She slides her foot into the stirrup and hoists herself back up into the leather saddle, turning with her horse to find Anders still leaning against the boulder, braced heavily against his hand.

When he finally turns, his face is alight with want. "You little _minx_," he snarls playfully before reaching for Kell.

"_There_ you two are," Isabela calls as her horse approaches them. "Find something worth chasing each other for?" she teases.

Hawke turns to her with a wide grin. "Hey, Isabela, let's race!"

Anders sighs and drops his head down into his hands. "Incorrigible."

She's determined to rid them all of this raincloud and with a sly laugh, she points out another boulder, _completely_ aware of the delight crossing Isabela's face.

"On the count of three," Hawke informs her. The word 'one' doesn't even leave her lips before the women dart off as one, their horses racing toward the next outcrop.

-.-

Her eyes lift to the endless stretch of sky above as it sweeps over the jagged mountain range. Thoughts run rampant through her mind as she counts the many strokes of deep indigo weaving across the midnight sky. The silvered moon hides coyly behind the thin veil of wispy clouds, teasingly draped over its curves. And like diamonds hovering in the velvet folds that hang overhead, stars leap about. She counts them one by one as they twinkle in their harmonious dance, hoping it'll eventually lull her to sleep.

She drapes her hands lightly over her chilled overtunic, lost to the sight bent over her. It's preached by the Chantry that those who pass are taken to the Maker's side, a wild rose to forever flourish in the fields of heaven. It's a divine thought, as are most the Chantry bring forward when it comes to death. But is that truly what happens?

The murder of Sebastian's family keeps pulling her mind back to her own. For most of the day she'd refused these thoughts, but as her companions began to drop off for the night, it's that dark path she keeps returning to. Bethany's and her father's faces keep rising to the forefront of her mind and with it, questions arise. Are they together now, somewhere, watching over the rest of the family? When she's finally chosen to seek out the Maker, will she find them as well?

How dearly she misses them. If only she could be given one more chance... if time could reverse... what would she do differently? The answer is simple: _anything_.

"Oh, my little shadow, you carry the world upon those shoulders of yours."

Hawke startles at the sound of a voice carrying across the camp, one she thought she would never hear again. She jerks up to her elbows, fingers sliding through the damp blades of grass surrounding her, hooded eyes widening in disbelief.

"Father," she gasps, unable to do anything beyond breathing.

"Hello, Marian," he says softly.

She struggles to her knees and scrambles to her feet, her palms pressing into her eyes as though she intends to rub the sight away. She counts to ten and lowers her hands, her breath sharp at the sight of him _still_ here.

Over the tips of the wind-whipped flames, her father's familial gaze shifts to hers. Four years... _four years_... and she hasn't forgotten a single detail about him, from the rumpled dark-as-night hair to the pointed chin. How she wants to run to him, to throw her arms around his neck, to feel him pull her into his chest and chase away whatever nightmare plagues her... But... can she?

"Is it _really_ you?" she whispers, her trembling fingers pressing into her lips. It seems so surreal. He simply sits on the log across the fire from her as though he does this every night.

His lips, the same as hers, tug into a gentle smile. "I certainly hope so," he teases, eyes shining like twin stars.

She staggers toward him, hot tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. With a harsh breath slipping past her mouth, she blinks them back, refusing to allow them to blur the sight of him.

"You've been thinking of me a great deal recently," he tells her in a soft tone before sighing and shifting his weight to his knees. "My darling girl, you've taken so much upon yourself."

"How can I not?" she questions, shivering when he takes her hands into his. Flesh, and bone, and heat, all wrap around her. The trembling sweeps over the rest of her body and suddenly she can't hold herself up; there's no strength remaining in her legs. As she sinks to her knees, his arms wind around her waist and draw her into his chest. Oh, _Maker_, she'd forgotten how he smells. Her lids flutter shut and she slumps into him, inhaling the familiar scent of the Lothering grasses. "I did as you asked, or I tried... father, I _did_ try."

His hands sweep up her back in a familiar path, fingers settling over the column of her neck. "Of course you did, Shadow. But you needn't concern yourself with these things any longer. I'm here."

Her eyes squeeze tight, her lips falling open as uneven breaths tumble forth. "You won't leave?" she whispers.

"Never again. We'll be a family again. Your mother, Carver, Bethany, you and I, all of us."

She shivers, a fine vibration threading under her skin. His fingers relinquish their hold on her and she shifts back, leaning against the log resting in front of him, the sodden ground wetting her leggings through her overtunic. His chin dips as he lowers his hawkish gaze to her, lips still drawn into that calming smile. Her father is here, _here_, with her.

Just as he said, she carries so much on her shoulders for someone so young, and the weight rolls off her shoulders, bleeding away from her. How many times has she imagined this exact situation? Her father would show up and he'd _fix_ everything. She wouldn't have to bear the weight of her mother alone, she wouldn't have to fight _every day _to make ends meet; wouldn't have to risk her life to support her family.

"Mother will be so happy," Hawke grins, face lighting up like a summer's day.

"Just so," her father nods, lips pulling back into his oh-so-familiar smile. "Shall we seek her out, then? I'm eager to see her."

A radiant look overcomes her face, like a sudden burst of sunshine on a cloudy day. And with a bubbling laugh, she shoots to her feet, her hand reaching for her father and helping him to his feet. "What do we need to do?"

"Just tell me what you want, my little shadow," her father avows, "and we'll go find your mother right this moment."

Her lips part, words poised on the edge of her tongue, when a silver-tipped blade ruptures through her father's chest. Hawke jumps as hot blood sprays across her face, eyes widening at the sight of the offensive claymore cleaving its way through flesh and bone.

Time slows, creeping along second by second, each dragging into its own eternity. Something clamps down around her waist and heaves her into the air, her limbs flailing as she struggles in their grasp. Her mouth falls open and she knows she's screaming, but she can't hear anything above the roaring in her head.

All she sees is her father's face, pale and waxen, his fingers rising to touch the rude rivulet of blood dribbling from the wound. Her eyes lift, searching the darkness for _something, anything, _that could have struck out at him. The blade is so familiar... she can feel it teasing her memories, but she can't place it.

Somehow, she frees herself. Her elbow snaps into something solid, something she can't see and she spills to the ground, the back of her head bouncing off the logs they had sat on.

"_Marian,"_ her father's voice reaches toward her.

She's on her knees in a heartbeat, crawling to him, her face stained with tears. A shadow shifts behind him, something silver... something... _Andraste's mercy_... Hawke's lips shape an anguished howl. _Templars_. No, not _templars_, but _templar_. Familiar amber eyes peer over her father's shoulder, watching her closely.

"What have you _done_?" she howls at Alistair, reaching for daggers she suddenly can't find. She'd _trusted_ him! _  
_

She crouches over her father, her fingers falling against his loose, bloodied shirt. "Tell me what to do," she begs him, her words cracked and broken. "Father... I - just tell me, please..." His hand lifts and he strokes her cheek. Hawke crumples, pressing her face against his palm. "I don't... know what to - do."

"Help - me," he chokes around his breath.

Her eyes lift to the silvered sight behind him, blind to the sight of steel armor - all she sees is Andraste's Sword. A blind rage sweeps over her, as intense as the fire that blazes next to them. Her fingers finally find her leather blade-hilts and before she can so much as suck in a sharp breath, she lunges from her crouch, driving her dual blades up, aiming for the inner thighs.

"_Hawke!"_ Voices... _familiar _voices.

Yet, she can't turn away from the sight of the Sword of Mercy. She can hear the templars gasps as she strikes again and again, sweat dotting her brow as she works. He will _not_ walk away this time. She remembers that grin, remembers that face and those icy eyes - she will pluck them out herself!

_Father..._

"Hawke!" the voice is louder - she knows this voice.

"Shit, Anders, get a hold of her before she actually lands a blow!" a woman...

Iron banded arms ensnare her waist and she's ridden to the ground, a heavy weight crushing her chest. Her breath explodes past her lips in a ragged gasp and her arms snap to her sides, her hands empty of her daggers.

"I've got you," a quiet voice, a calm voice...

Hawke blinks and the sight before her finally clears, her vision sharpening. A face takes shape above her; golden hair spilling over his face, heavy brows drawn down sharply over tawny eyes... _those eyes_...

"Anders?" she whispers, her voice a pale imitation.

"That's my girl," he croons, his fingers running a soft path down her cheek, tucking her stray hairs behind her ear.

"Andraste's flaming sword, I'm bleeding! _Look! _There's blood!" another familiar voice. "_Maker__, _she's fast. I mean I'd known she was _quick_, but not _that_ quick!"

"Suck it up, man," a woman chuckles.

Armored steps carry toward her and Hawke's heart takes off like a startled bird at the sight of silver armor. Silver _Grey Warden_ armor, not templar; a griffon, not a sword. _Alistair_. "Is she all right?"

"I don't know, just back off," Anders snaps.

The weight above her shifts, rising onto his elbows. The moment he draws back, a horrid chill bears down on her and she shakes pitifully. "Father!" she chokes as her trembling hands slap into Anders' chest and shove him off of her.

"Hawke, no!" he calls as she scrambles back to her feet. But the sight before her is _anything_ but her father. Her heels dig into the soil and she falls still, staring down at the mess before her. The sight is baffling - she'd been so sure it was her father.

"Is it dead?" the woman, _Isabela_, murmurs, stepping up next to Hawke.

"I'm not sure, do demons actually live?" Varric questions, sliding Bianca home.

_Demon?_ Hawke blinks, the brackish scent of sulfur pervading the once clean air. Her gaze sharpens on the sight before her. The creature that _had_ looked like her father seems to have melded into something else entirely - something with smoking horns and cloven hooves.

Anders had warned them earlier, that the veil is thin here and at the sight of her father, she'd turned into a bumbling mess and even injured Alistair.

"Marian," Anders murmurs. "_Are _you all right?"

_Is _she? The simple answer: _no_. No, she isn't all right. Her father's words struck a chord within her that she'd thought to be long buried. She isn't a sixteen year old girl anymore, taking care of her family hadn't been that difficult since Bethany. Admittedly, it isn't as though there are many left for her to take care of. She'd failed in that. Failed in keeping Bethany safe, even Carver... And within moments, her father had made her feel safe, protected, and cared for.

She shudders and turns away from the sight of the demon, she doesn't want to look at it anymore. It's far too easy to see it as her father, sprawled there in the bloodstained grass.

"Marian?" Anders calls her name once more as she stalks off, shaking her head. She just wants to be left alone.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: As always, thanks so much to everyone who is following along :) Hopefully everyone still is! The reviews have been awfully quiet for this past chap! _

_Warning: This chap is def rated MA lol and also, is unbeta-ed, so forgive me for any errors you find. Hopefully I'll correct them as I catch them. It's been read 5 times but sometimes that one little boo boo slips past! _

_The good news is after this chap, we're back in Kirkwall, woohoo! So! Please, please, let me know what you think :D I *love* reviews as much as air. And ice cream! Enjoy guys!_

* * *

**Chapter 24**

-Anders-

"Hawke," Anders calls as he carefully navigates his way through the endless snarl of unbroken prickling vines. Tromping after a sullen female through backwoods is not something he would classify as ideal, but at least she isn't angry with _him_. Though, who she _is _angry with remains a mystery. "Hawke-" a low curse steals his voice when his toe catches against a thickened vine draped nonchalantly across the crushed grass. His balance shifts and he hops on one foot, tugging shamelessly to free himself from the scandent stems.

_Watch your step_, Justice's voice breathes through his mind.

_Oh, ha, ha_, Anders rolls his eyes as his fingers close around a barbed root. A spirit with a sense of humor, just his luck. And by the Void! Where is she _leading _them?

"Hawke!" he doesn't _mean _to shout at her, but if she would just stop creeping through this blighted vegetation. How in the Maker does she even _do _this? He can't take a single step without the brush coiling around his boots. It's like the bloody weeds are alive and plotting against him!

A clawed branch snares against his jacket and with a deflating sigh, he plants his feet firmly in the packed soil, refusing to take another step, lest he tangle himself further.

"Marian!" he snaps this time, throwing up an arm to beat off an incessant branch scratching at his face.

Like a wild wood nymph, deep in her element, she reveals her shadowed form and steps out of the vines as though she belongs here. Eyes like limpid pools stare up at him and a little of the frustration bleeds away from his tight shoulders. The healer within senses the heartache crushing her chest and he lifts his hand, curling his fingers over her cheek. Her lashes flutter as her lids sink low and she settles into his touch, the faintest breath slipping from her lips.

Unable to resist, to see that heart-rending look darken her face, he leads her away from the vines with guiding hands curling over her hips, before folding her into his chest and claiming her mouth. Such little resistance as she melts into him, her arms sliding beneath the thick folds of his jacket and tightening around his waist. His mouth molds to hers before his tongue slides into the warm depth, drinking in her singular taste.

_The memories I carry from Kristophe suggest that he was better at this than you_, Justice chastises righteously.

Anders stutters for a moment, his teeth accidentally grazing against her lower lip. _I would hit you if it didn't mean hitting myself. _

_I am simply attempting to aid you. Perhaps if you did not drool on her like a hunger demon..._

He tears away from Hawke in insult, his thumb instinctively tracing the lower swell of her lip. _There's no drool!_

_Truly? My mistake then. Your positioning seemed inadequate and inconsistent with the images of Kristophe's wife. Hawke does not appear to be enthralled by you -_

_Since when did you start caring about Hawke?_

_Perhaps if you tilted your head a little more toward her -_

_Would you shut it? I'm trying to cheer her up!_

_Ah, my apologies. Had I known you were going for humor, I would not have -_

_Justice! I do not need kissing advice from a spirit!_

_Right, apologies again. _

"Anders?" Hawke's voice calls him back to the present and he drops his eyes down to her, the corners of his mouth tugging up.

"Sorry, Justice was trying to be funny," he tells her in a gentle voice.

_I do not see the humor in my advice._

_You wouldn't. _

"Justice was being funny?" her brow cocks.

"He has his moments." Anders fingers sweep against her neck, brushing the heavy locks away. Given the choice between the short, mussed style she'd had when they met and this, he definitely finds the longer length more enticing. "Are you alright?"

She ducks her head, her eyes fixating on the sharp vines snaking around their feet. "Can we not-"

"Marian," he whispers to her, laying his brow against the rounded crest of her head. "It's just me here. You don't have to play the hero every minute of the day."

The faintest sigh falls from her lips. "I don't want to talk about it."

Anders teeth set into his tongue at the last moment to keep him from prodding further. He _should _drop it and take her back to camp where she can just... be. But... "Hawke-"

"Do you want to talk about those scars on your back?" she needles, pulling back when his muscles seize with tension.

His unspoken answer rises between them and he meets her gaze, recognizing the small spark of challenge. His mouth begins to shape words, but nothing coherent comes out. Skin suddenly puckering with an unwanted chill, he pushes away from her, striding quickly back through the vines. At least this time, the barbed roots appear to give him leave, allowing him to return the way he came. He should have expected this. It isn't as though he'd made an effort to hide the scars.

His tongue dampens his arid lips as he fixates on the flickering fire in the distance. Isabela, Alistair, Varric, and Dread sit around it, speaking quietly amongst themselves as they wait for his and Hawke's return. Someone took the time to remove the demon, something Anders is thankful for, though if he squints just right, he can still make out the dark pool of blood seeping into the grass.

_It will not injure you to tell her_, Justice breathes through his mind in a gentle tone. _Perhaps it might help her understand all the injustices mages suffer under_.

_Hawke already understands. Her father was killed by templars and her sister was also a mage. Telling her about my past will do nothing but give her nightmares._

_Perhaps it will lessen yours, though. I have seen these images that you drown within. I have lived them through you -_

_Please, just shut up_, Anders begs silently. _I need to think. You aren't helping_.

Hawke snorts impatiently, sounding more like Dread than an impatient woman. "It's impolite to have private conversations when I'm standing right here," she chastises them both gently.

The shame emanating off the spirit stuns Anders. He's never felt anything of the like with Justice. He turns back to face her, noting the pinched look to her eyes. "Hawke, it isn't that I don't want to tell you about my past, it's that I don't..." his voice trails into the night, his hand fidgeting anxiously at his side as he struggles to find the right words.

"It's that you don't want me to _know _about your past," she states sagely, her nimble steps carrying her lithely over the snarling vines and closer to him.

"My past is not pleasant," he whispers. "I'm sure you've been able to piece that together."

She nods slowly, her lips tugging into a sympathetic smile. Like a brisk wind, silent thoughts breeze through his mind. Perhaps it would be best to tell her. Before this -whatever _this_ is - develops into something more. He's aware of his feelings for her - what he doesn't know are hers. And if his past is too much for her to bear, well, it's best he find that out now before letting this progress further.

Sighing, Anders pivots away from her and shrugs angrily out of his jacket. His frustration isn't directed at _her_, but at the situation. Bringing up his past tends to scare people. They never understand all the templars are capable of, and they can't accept his rage when he speaks of it. Since merging with Justice, this will be his first time telling another of everything that occurred.

Bare to his waist, he gives her his back, his fingers curling around a thorny vine as he waits for her catch of breath, for her stuttered apologies over something she can't begin to understand, for her to walk away. She saw them that morning, but had it been a peek or a full eye full?

He strains to hear her response, heart beating like a drum, but nothing happens. His hands clench tightly around the vines, the thorns breaking the skin of his palms.

And then cool hands touch him, chilled fingers sliding over the aged welts. He tempers his face, refusing to show the slightest emotion as she touches him. Even Justice is silent as she traces the paths, his curiosity peaked. Anders just _loves _when the spirit uses him for experiments.

When a warm mouth drops down atop them, tongue swirling around the whitened wheals, he gasps, his skin rippling. Startled, Anders whips around with wide eyes, his garments bunched between his fingers.

"What?" she whispers, staring up at him with a blank face.

He can't speak, his throat is so full of emotion. No one has _ever _touched his scars like that. The countless women he's bedded before her always shied away from his imperfections - loving that it made him hardened and ragged but refusing to actually touch them, disgusted.

"Anders, you don't have to tell me anything," she murmurs, her fingers sweeping down his arms to cup his hands. "Your past made you who you are. If you think a few scars are going to scare me off, then you haven't been paying attention. In case you forgot, I have a few of my own."

How did this become about him? He'd followed after her to ensure that she was alright...

His eyes close and he drops his brow against hers once more, his shoulders loosening when she drapes her arms gently around his neck. Whether or not she'd intended to lay her fingers against his scars, he doesn't know, but he relishes in the heat pressing against them, and the intoxicating feel of her skin against his.

"The Ferelden circle is not as bad as Kirkwall's," he whispers to her, though both ignore the waver in his voice. "Tranquility is honestly a last resort and it is saved for those that cannot, or do not, wish to control themselves. I was one of the youngest to be brought to the circle and had more control than most. My problem was more behavioural. I'd never tasted freedom and was determined to experience it. My first escape lasted only days and I was punished with a month in solitude. It wasn't... _so _bad. I had a friend, a cat named Mr. Wiggums that kept me company.

"My second attempt I managed to remain elusive for a month. The things I saw, and experienced - it was addictive. My punishment was three months in solitude. This time was different. I was beginning to make a reputation for myself and the templars did not enjoy the waves I was creating. When they came to my cell..." his voice breaks and it's only with Hawke's fingers threading through his hair that he finds the courage to continue. "I won't pervade your ears by listening to what they did. I'm sure you can imagine what occurred. Humans instinctively take advantage of those subservient to them and they ensured I was _very_ subservient to them.

"I escaped five more times after that, each time the punishment was harsher as they tried to beat the rebelliousness out of me. These scars were from my sixth attempt. It's rare for mages to leave the tower, the templars thought it encouraged escape..." he shakes his head, a few rogue strands grazing against her cheek. "Denied even the light of day. That day, every mage in the tower was corralled outside where I was strung up. I was to be given fifty lashes, then put in solitude for a year. I was more afraid of the solitude," he laughed breathlessly.

"Did no one stand up for you?" Hawke's voice cracks and her hands cup around his neck.

"One," he nodded. "Likely my only friend. She was thrown into solitude for six months. During my time - I don't know how _much _had passed - the tower fell to blood mages and I managed to escape when one of them came looking for me. I searched for my friend but I couldn't find anything alive among the... remains. I knew of a passage through the dungeons and snuck out, hoping the templars would simply think me dead."

"And did they?" she asks in a ghostly voice, her lips running lines across his throat and cheeks. An attempt to keep him calm, doubtlessly.

"No. They found me in Amaranthine. I... lost my mind. One of the ones that found me was my worst tormentor in the tower. I killed him and the two other templars he had with him. There was no going back after that. They'd likely label me maleficarum and force tranquility on me the first chance they got. It was only because of Cousland conscripting me that I was permanently freed from their grasps. You may not like him, neither do I, but he saved my life."

She huffs under her breath. "It seems we have that in common."

A watery chuckle spills from his lips. "He saved your life as well?"

She nods, rolling her eyes. "If he hadn't thrown me out of the way, a giant boulder would have made mulch out of me. I was one of the few archers that survived because of him."

"Then it seems I have something else to be thankful to him for," Anders whispers to her, brushing his lips across hers. He can't imagine having never met her. Or worse yet, meeting her than being denied the chance to have her. That day in the woods is the best day of his life, even above the day that he found his freedom from the Chantry. He may loathe the deep roads, and the Wardens, but he wouldn't trade back the shortened life span if it meant returning to the Circle. Out here, at least he can _live_.

"Shh, don't say that too loud," she teases weakly against his mouth. "He may hear you. That's all Cousland needs is another ego boost."

"I don't like templars, Marian," he returns to the conversation. "I've never been given a reason to - and even less reason to trust the Chantry. They create these monsters, preaching to them that we aren't even human. From babes they're taught not to trust us, or like us. They're taught to fear us and it's drilled into them that sympathizing with us is against the Maker's will. But how can that be? If it is a sin to have magic, then why does the Maker continue to gift it upon us?"

"I don't know," she whispers to him, her breath so sweet against his face. "But I do know that the three most wonderful people I've ever met in the world were given magic."

"Am I one of those three?" he chuckles, his fingers snaring around her hips and drawing her flush against him.

She pretends to contemplate it, her narrowed eyes lifting to regard him. "I don't know... I was actually thinking Merrill-"

A low growl rumbles through his chest and he steals her mouth, putting her lips to better use.

When his hands creep around to her rear, she comes up for air, chuckling. "Perhaps we should head back to camp before they come looking for us. Believe me, you don't want to get all grindy in these vines. We'd never get the thorns out."

She steps around him, her fingers twining tightly with his. He stares after her, wondering if he really heard her correctly. Did she actually just say _grindy_?

He follows in her wake, noting once more how the vines appear to be curling away from them as they leave - not as though Hawke had found it difficult to begin with, but it is an intriguing notion, either way.

When they return to the camp, only Varric is awake and he turns to Hawke with a concerned look darkening his face. "All right?" he asks.

Anders pulls up a seat next to the dwarf and directs Hawke between his legs, unfortunately aware of the smirk climbing Varric's lips.

She nods just as his arms wind around her shoulders and draw her into his chest.

For a moment, it looks like Varric intends to keep quiet, but finally a burst of laughter bubbles out of his lips. Both Hawke and Anders jump as one, and he turns his eyes from the fire over to their friend who is fishing in his pack for a roll of blank parchment.

"Just perfect," Anders can hear him muttering. "No one is going to believe this."

Hawke shifts in his arms, tipping her head back to regard him, but Anders only shrugs. He has no idea what the dwarf has found so interesting and he's afraid to ask. Every few seconds, his beady little eyes dart over to them before he sets to scribbling again.

Anders sighs, and drops his cheek against Hawke's head. Let the bard tell his story - they'll hear it eventually.

-.-

The sight of her, all burnished skin, and flushed cheeks, even in her sleep lights up the night around him in song. Notes he's never sung, melodies he's never heard, beats he's never drummed... It's enthralling and he knows where it all comes from - from the balled up woman cuddled across the camp.

He's the only one awake, the others having retired to their own tents hours earlier. But Hawke chose to remain tucked by the fire, waiting for him. He can't believe he's lucky enough to find someone as wonderful as her. Someone who doesn't shirk away from his past, and may even love him more for it... _if _she loves him, that is. They still haven't gotten to that part and the thought of speaking of it swells his tongue.

Those soft, little sighs, and faces she makes do little for his nerves. It's been three days since he's last tasted her - three torturously long days - since he'd pinned her against that rock, her ravenous eyes absolutely devouring him from head to toe, lingering midway as though there was a chocolate surprise in his pants. He can't take it any longer. Not even while knowing there's _only _one more day before he can have her again. Maker, he won't last that long. It's like a form of torture, to see her moving in rhythm with her horse, to hear her honeyed voice...

He rocks to his feet, swaying under the strength of the images whisking through his mind. Maker, they shouldn't, he knows that, he's on watch. But to the Void with that! The veil has long since strengthened after that first night and he can't sense any darkspawn in the distance. All they have to fear are bandits and well... he'll kill them if they interrupt them. And any other that dares to do the same.

He sweeps across the camp, his toes stirring up plumes of loose dust as he walks toward her. She hardly stirs. For a moment, he debates on how to wake her. There are so many delightful ways.

Deciding, he sinks to his knees by her side and gently reaches for her free hand, draped bonelessly in the dirt. He lifts it, and at the last moment, slides her index finger knuckle deep between his lips. His tongue molds around its length, sealing it against the roof of his mouth before slowly drawing it back out. Originally, he'd thought that would wake her, but instead, her face wrinkles and she shifts against the ground, her eyes pinching as a new dream takes hold. Intrigued, Anders moves to the next finger, and the next, laving away the faint layer of soot clinging to her skin.

A sound sleeper... he hadn't known that. Something that only entices him to get a little more creative.

With her hand twined through his, he lowers over her and seals his mouth over the lobe of her ear, nibbling gently up the length. His heart takes off when a faint sigh brushes over his cheek, and his groin thickens when his half-mumbled name falls from her lips.

Oh, the _fun _he can have here.

He releases her ear and drags his mouth down her neck, tongue dipping into the hollow of her neck. He sets his teeth against the lightly threading pulse jumping beneath her skin just as his fingers graze over her breast. She'd removed her armor before settling in for the night, and part of what entices him is knowing that only a thin sheath of fabric stands between her body and the chill night air.

The moment his fingers graze over the small mounded peak, she gasps and darts up in the dirt, her tousled hair spilling about her face in thick, ebony waves. So beautiful with the lambent moonbeams banding over her face. Softly hooded eyes find his, the crystal blue muted in the darkness. Her rosy lips part, tonguing darting out to wet them. Anders drinks in the sight of her, flush faced and flustered.

"Anders?" how he loves to hear his name on her lips, a song all on its own, one he doesn't want anyone else to sing, ever. His pulse races with the thought of telling her, but he can't... not yet.

"I hope so," he teases. "Who else do you know that would wake you in such a fashion?"

A light twinkles in her eyes as she wakes up. "Well, Isabela definitely," she taunts him. "And-"

"Sweetheart," he impedes her, refusing to let her jokes ruin the moment he's spent effort in creating, "if you so much as say _his _name, I'll show you exactly what I think about that."

With the haze of the fade receding from her, her mouth tugs at the corner and she quirks a single brow. Thankfully there's something else behind her teasing tone, and the dusky sound of her voice warms his stomach. "Is that a fact?"

His response is haughtily closer to a growl than anything else; he must have taken lessons from Fenris with the animalistic sounds crawling from his throat. Not that she seems to dislike them... if her creeping toward him on her hands and knees is evident of anything.

_Oh Maker_... her eyes are alight with passion and her movements are like liquid. The air around them seems to dry and suddenly, he can't make his lips work, no matter how much he wets them.

"You look warm," she jokes. "I can help with that." Her hands are on him before he can even think, fingers tearing at his jacket and shoving it to the ground. He doesn't even notice where his shirt lands. All he knows is that he's suddenly bare to the waist and her lips are on him, dragging open-mouthed kisses down the plane of his chest. When did this turn into her seducing him? He's sure it'd begun with him teasing her, he can recall waking her with a touch and a kiss -

Grunting under his breath, his hands ensnare her full rear and snag her against him. Her fluted gasp plumes into the night air and he settles her into his lap. Giggling - a sound he's _never_ heard from Hawke, she rolls her hips, her center grazing against his groin. One hand ensnares her tangled hair and forces her mouth down onto his, his teeth grazing over that plump lower lip.

Anders spares a single pleased thought directed to Justice when her breath catches and fingers tighten against his shoulders. Thankfully, the spirit only recedes further into him, understanding Anders' need for privacy at a moment like this.

Her legs lock around his waist, and he pushes to his feet, lifting her easily. If they are doing this, it certainly won't be by the fire where any of their companions could stumble upon them at any moment.

With every step, their clothing seems to vanish, though he doesn't recall doing any of the work. He's suddenly very aware of Hawke's bare chest against his, pressed into him as she climbs higher on him and steals his mouth in a heated kiss that nearly knocks him off his feet. Her tongue darts into his mouth, twisting and weaving around his, plunging into the depths as deftly as he imagines sliding within her. Bronzed thighs tighten around him and before he can even slow her, her fingers find him just beneath her and she lowers down, spearing herself on his length.

He tears his mouth from hers with a gasp, his brows darting to the sky. But all he sees is Hawke, head tipped back, pumping herself on top of him.

For three days, he's thought of nothing else, and just like that... they come together like they belong.

A shuddering breath spills against her throat as he moans, the feel of her shifting above him, riding him, robbing him of breath. He can feel her closing around him, tightening with her every pump... Yet it isn't enough. The thoughts he's been suffering under for three days have been unbearable.

He stumbles forward, her weight secure against him, and presses her against the nearest rock. Without a wasted breath, he shoves his length inside of her, pushing until he feels her end. For the briefest moment, he pauses, ensuring she isn't in pain, but with the encouraging moan that falls into his mouth, he moves again, his hips thrusting into her with a sharp slap. Surely, their companions will wake, but Anders just doesn't care. He's wanted her for longer than he can bear.

"Anders!" she gasps his name around her uneven breaths, her fingers tightening against his shoulders, just as she clamps down on him.

His head falls forward, a blond wave of hair brushing against her chest, but he does not stop. The sound of them coming together echoes through the night, and her moans are like music, rising with the song of the wolves in the distance. He's never heard anything so erotic in his life.

She shatters around him, her nails breaking through his flesh, her body trembling and shuddering as she cries out in ecstasy. Maker, how he loves that sound, and he feels himself thicken from it. Damp heat wraps around his length and the sweet scent of her orgasm perfumes the air.

Her head falls back against the rock as she rides out her pleasure, eyes squeezed shut with the overwhelming sensations. But when her teeth sets into her lower lip, dragging it into her mouth to muffle her cries, he's pushed over his own edge, and he finally joins her. His hips jut forward in their final thrust, and he spills into her, shuddering as the waves of passion overcome him.

It feels like an eternity has passed before the warm, cocooning brume passes. Wetting his mouth, he slowly switches their position before lowering them down to the ground with her still sheathed over him.

Her arms fall around his neck and her brow drops forward into the small crook of his shoulder. Her body shifts when she starts to chuckle and it does the strangest thing. He thickens within her immediately and gasping, she lifts her head, those velvet eyes wide with shock.

"Gray Warden stamina, sweetheart," he laughs, tipping his head back against the roughened rock.

A shadow of confusion darkens her face and nodding, he runs his fingers down her arms, casting silvered braids of magic over her skin to heal whatever abrasions he might have caused against the stone.

"You've seen how Alistair and I eat, yes?" he asks breathlessly.

She nods as she curls over him, running her tongue against the soft skin beneath his ear. He moans and drags one hand back up into her hair, his fingers tightening against the nape of her neck.

"We have an increased metabolism," he tells her, though why they are taking at a time like this, he doesn't know. "It doesn't matter. Just means we have more energy and stamina than non-Wardens."

"Really," she breathes into his ear, her warm voice making him twitch. "Did I ever tell you that Grey Wardens turn me on?"

Chuckling, Anders' hands wrap around her back and he spills her down into the softened earth. "Shall I provide a demonstration?"

She sucks in her bottom lip, her cheeks burning when he starts moving again, slower this time.

"Did you ever give thought to what a _mage_ Grey Warden could do?" he asks around his thrusts.

Her lids flutter shut and she arches into him, clearly deaf to his words as she rides the waves of ecstasy.

He curves over her, his fingers pushing her hair back from her face. "Do you trust me?"

He has to repeat the question two more times before she manages a small choking _yes_. Having had this done to himself in the past, Anders' gently covers her mouth, offering her a small smile when her eyes crack open to regard him. He continues to drive himself into her as he trails the length of her body with his fingers. Curling them around her hip, they spark to life. The flickering energy crackles through the air and spills over her flesh. Her response is immediate and her back arches off the ground, her cries muffled against his hand.

Groaning, Anders claims the twin mounds so perfectly proffered to him, rolling the taut nipples around in his mouth. Her orgasm erupts around him and she clamps down on him once more. The muscles beneath his hand ripple and break with the pleasure. He rides it out with her, his hips rocking against hers. Her breath is so hot against his palm as she pants against him, eyes squeezed shut as she throws her head back against the earth. He can feel her vibrating around his length and it drags a groan from him. Slowly, she returns to him, her pulse leaping under her skin.

She's practically sobbing around his hand so he slows, for a moment afraid he's gone too far, when she suddenly shifts their position through some maneuver he's never seen completed before. A lustful gaze watches him as she pins herself atop him over and over. Anders gasps and holds on, eyes rolling to the back of his head when her hips roll sinuously over him.

"Maker," he hears her gasp and he would laugh if it weren't for the fact that she's riding him as effortlessly as her horse. The last thing he would think to do at a time like this is call the Maker's name. Though he does take pleasure that he inspires such a godly presence. He can feel her tightening _again_ and this time she doesn't look away when she comes in a wild, clenching arch, her back bowing over his legs. Anders drives into her with mindless want - once, twice more - just as his skin illuminates with blue fire, the lustrous light burnishing her curves.

She breaks over him, her cry rending the crackling air as he drags her down over his chest. Lost to his own pleasure, he follows after her, his face buried into her shoulder and mouth falling open in a faint shout muffled by her damp skin.

Stars take shape behind his eyes and he collapses bonelessly against the ground, briefly wondering if that was pleasure or pain - or a little of both in the best combination ever.

Hawke drapes over him, her pounding heart thumping against _his_ chest. Chuckling weakly, he threads his fingers through the thick ropes of hair spread over his neck, brushing them back from her face.

"When we can breathe properly again, you're going to have to tell me just what that was," she pants against him.

"Mage secrets," he whispers to her, brushing his lips across her damp brow. "If I tell you, that takes away from the fun."

Her body shifts against him as she laughs - though, it's only a shadow of her normal one. "We should get our clothes."

"If you can use your legs, be my guest," he teases, knowing she's likely as rubbery as him.

"Or we could just lay here."

"Mmm," he hums, the tips of his fingers tracing abstract designs over her silken skin.

"An interesting sight if Isabela were to stumble over us-"

"Hawke," Anders interrupts her.

Her heads shifts against his chest and he feels her eyes on him.

"Stop talking," he laughs, feigning injury when she swats at him feebly. "Just lie here. Enjoy it. We'll worry about the clothes later."

She purrs contentedly and sinks into the same crook in his shoulder. "'Kay."

-.-

-Hawke-

"So, _interesting_ little show last night," Isabela breathes in her ear when Hawke is finally alone.

She's drooping, her eyes hardly able to stay open after the night she spent with Anders. "What?" she mumbles, peering through gritty eyes to regard her friend.

"Oh, don't play coy, kitten," she chuckles, her head falling back to display her massive breast. "The _entire_ camp heard the two of you last night. 'Rutting' as Varric put it as he scribbled it down. Now what did he write? '_Hawke's cries poured forth like the rending sea in passionate waves, as pure as the naked heavens_'," she laughs again, choking on her mirth. "Tell me Anders is as _magical_ as I was imagining, because damn, girl. I've never heard someone... ah, _finish _like _that _before!"

"_Isabela!_" Hawke shouts, her exhaustion vanishing in the wake of horror.

"What?" the woman laughs. "If you two are going to partake in such lavish activities within range of us hearing, I'm going to make the most of it."

The color drains from Hawke's face. "You didn't..."

"Oh, I did, kitten. Thank your lover for me." With a flash of a grin, Isabela jabs her horse in the side and sends her mare flying toward the dotted city in the distance, Kirkwall.

Groaning, Hawke drops her head into her hands, trusting Drakon to carry her the rest of the way. Mustering her courage, she suffers a deep breath and glances back up, turning to watch the rest of the group. Alistair won't even look at her and Varric is simply too happy with himself, still doodling away in that blighted journal.

"_Varric!"_ she bellows, gripping the supple reigns and spinning Drakon around.

Her shrill voice carries over the gently sloped path and jars the dwarf out of his reverie.

"Hawke?" he calls back in a cautious voice.

"Hand it over," she orders, her hands hovering between them.

"Hand _what_ over?"

"Don't play games with me, dwarf, I just spoke with Isabela..."

She's never seen Varric go so red in the face before and satisfied, she shifts back in her saddle, waiting patiently for him to hand the vellum over.

What she doesn't expect is for him to jab his horse in the ribs and book forward.

"You'll have to catch me first!" he calls back over his shoulder, racing in Isabela's wake.

Cursing colorfully in words that draw Anders' widened eyes toward her, she spears Drakon and takes chase, swearing to the Maker and all he stands for that she _will_ retrieve that piece of parchment and burn it before his beady little eyes.


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Sorry this took so long guys! But I **finally **started working on my own and got so sucked into the universe it took a lot of help to drag me back out haha, so thanks to FenZev for her youtube vids and encouragement to yank me back haha... On that note, I'll likely begin updating this specifically once a week, likely Thursdays or Fridays before the weekend starts so that I can continue with my own work :D_**  
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_I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, it's a bit fluffy, but sometimes that's needed, right? It can't all be doom, gloom, and despair xD. It's also an unbeta'd chapter, so forgive me for any mistakes I didn't catch :) Also, dont forget to fill in that giant box at the bottom telling me what you thought. I so adore reviews and they also help inspire us aspiring writers to keep going! haha. Cookies, and love, and slurpees to those that do :D Love you guys!_

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**Chapter 25**

-Hawke-

Peevish and impatient, Hawke paces the length of the sun-kissed stone walls, her gaze regularly lifting to the city just beyond. From here, she can _see_ her Uncle's hovel. There's been no sign of movement within and her fingers keep twining into the hem of her overtunic. To be so close... and held back while Alistair negotiates over the prices of the horses...

_Maker's breath!_ They'd been free! Just _give_ them to the merchant so she can find her mother. No matter what, it would be profit. But Alistair seems insistent that they get their full value. Anders, Isabela, and Varric lean against the city wall, watching her with amused grins as she treads the length again and _again_, her boots packing down the soil.

Her chin lifts again and this time her breath catches. The shock white hair, the clawed armor, the infused lyrium...

"Anders-" she chokes before throwing her patience - or lack thereof - to the wind and dashing through the city gates with Dread hot on her heels. "Fenris!" she shouts, her voice bubbling with excitement at seeing one of her friends. "_Fenris!_"

The elf falls still in the middle of the Lowtown street and turns, his emerald eyes widening at the sight of Hawke barrelling toward him. Laughter tears free of her lips and at the last moment she throws her arms around his neck. A rush of breath grazes over her cheek as he staggers back, his fingers falling lightly on her hips to help steady her. Chuckling, she releases him and steps back, her lower lip vanishing into the depth of her mouth.

"Hawke," he says, his voice lilting in surprise. How she forgot the sound of his voice - along with how sharp his armor is! She rubs her arms where it grated against her skin but she's still all smiles, peering up into her friend's face. He looks the _exact_ same and the thought makes her laugh all the more. She can't believe it! She's _home_. After almost eight weeks or tramping through disease infested corridors, they're _home_. The barest amount of emotion flickers over his face and had she not been staring, she would have missed it. Blinking, his hands actually rise from his side and he clutches at hers. "You're alive."

She nods, her heart thumping so hard it may just burst from her chest.

"What happened?" he demands, his voice deepening as his gaze lifts over her shoulder to those behind her.

"It's a long story, and I'll tell you all about it, I swear - Fenris, where's my mother?"

His chin jerks back her Uncle's hovel. "I just escorted her home from the Chantry."

Hawke follows his line of sight, her hands threading through her hair and pulling it off her face. She can't explain it, but her stomach is twisting with nerves. "How... how is she?"

"Distraught," is all Fenris says. "You have been gone far too long."

She nods and swallows, smoothing down her rumpled overtunic and breeches. She elbows her bow back behind her and adjusts her daggers. She dares her first step, before pausing and slanting a glance back at him. The rest of her companions stand there, watching her. "Um... I'm going to let my mother know I'm safe. Why don't you guys take care of your business and we'll all meet at the Hanged Man tonight? Fenris, if you wouldn't mind letting everyone else know we're back and they can come as well?"

He nods, his eyes flicking among the group. "It is... good to see you are back," he grumbles before spinning on his heel and leaving Lowtown.

"Hawke," Anders murmurs as he steps up flush to her, his shoulder brushing against hers. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

For a moment, Hawke nearly accepts his proposition, fearing her mother's reaction. But, instead she shakes her head, sweeping back the rogue strands that fall before her face once more. "I think it would be best if it was only me. Besides, don't you have a clinic that you need to check into?"

A low laugh spills from his lips. "Definitely. Hopefully it hasn't been overrun in my absence."

"Then... I guess I'll see you tonight?"

His fingers slide through hers and he lifts her hand to his mouth, running his lips across her palm, as she'd done the morning they woke together in Sebastian's estate. "Tonight, then."

She nods but pins Alistair with a look before he turns to leave. Hawke waits a few moments for Isabela, Varric, and Anders to leave before she drifts closer to him. Guarded eyes watch her and it hurts her heart to see him like that. "Come on," she tells him, her fingers ensnaring his wrist and leading him to the house.

"What, Hawke, where-"

"You don't have anywhere to stay, right?" she asks. "You can stay with us until something more permanent can be arranged for you."

"Hawke -" he grumbles. "I don't think-"

"Save it," she impedes him as they cross toward her Uncle's hovel. "We won't be here much longer, now that I have enough money to secure the deed to the Amell estate. So if you can put up with Gamlen, you're welcome to stay with us. Unless you'd rather go to the Hanged Man, with Isabela and Varric?"

She peeks back at him and catches the forced swallow. She'd seen his room at the Hanged Man; it'd been nowhere _near_ as nice as Varric's. Isabela rarely spent the night in her own room, but Alistair is different.

"I-" he sighs, his hand rubbing the back of his head before his hazel eyes flick up to hers. "I... thanks, Hawke. You don't have to do this - I know I haven't been..."

She shrugs, not exactly one to delve into the personal emotions. "We're friends, Alistair." Though she catches the wince when those words leave her mouth. Sighing, she pivots in the dirt path leading up to her Uncle's house. "Look, I _am_ sorry about... I didn't know that you-" she huffs an impatient breath and decides to just have it out in the open. "I didn't know that you have feelings for me. Not that it changes anything," she clarifies, pinning him with another glance. The poor man's ears blush a deep red and he averts his eyes. "I met Anders three years ago," she tells him. "And... as much as I hated it, he stuck with me. Even in Ostagar, he was still in my thoughts."

Alistair nods as he rocks back on his heels, his gaze fixating on the toe of his armored boots. "It was the same for me," he finally whispers, his eyes framed by his sandy colored lashes. "The day that Cousland saved your life, and you looked up at me, I felt it. And then when you appeared from _nowhere_, swooping down from those trees, I couldn't get you out of my head throughout the entire blight. Your brother teased me fiercely, said you were trouble. Maker, if only I knew how _true _that was!" he teases, the corners of his mouth tugging up. "When I learned you were from Lothering, do you know how stunned I was?" he asked. "I was raised in the Redcliffe Chantry, but my templar training took place in Lothering. To think we never met..."

"In case you haven't noticed, I keep a distance from templars," she chuckles.

He nods slowly. "But to then find you here. Always one step behind, it would seem."

Hawke swallows, her fingers tightening around his. "Come on," she murmurs, finally drawing him up the stairs. At the door, she pauses and steadies her breathing. If she could face the disease infested roads teeming with darkspawn, she can face her mother. And that's what she keeps telling herself until she finally finds the courage to push open the door.

-.-

She couldn't have gotten out of that house quickly enough. The moment she and Alistair stepped within, her mother had dissolved into wretched sobs and wracking hiccups that no one could understand. There'd been tight embraces and wet kisses that had her diving for the door the first chance she'd been given. Blighted mother... Hawke had been excited to see her when they'd first crossed into Kirkwall, but now, another month could pass and she'd be happy.

Her feet carry her through the Lowtown streets, past the Hanged Man - where she knows her friends likely can be found - and down into Darktown. Seven weeks spent underground, and her entire life has changed, or so it feels; an unbridled turn of events, surely. The deep roads feel like an entirely different life and it's a little disconcerting to try and find her way back to this one.

The rotten stench of blackdamp rises and she chokes on the poisoned air, her fingers pressing into the molded walls to steady her. _Maker_, she's forgotten just how vile this air could be. Shaking her head clear of her suddenly muddled thoughts, she pushes off the wall and continues her path toward his clinic. She'd told him she would come to him tonight. It's a bit earlier than she'd intended, but she had to get clear of her mother. Leaving her in Alistair's care probably hadn't been the wisest decision, but she couldn't take it any longer.

The clinic's doors are closed when she approaches them and her steps slow as she eyes the grained wood. Does she knock? Or just burst in? She recalls another time when she'd wondered the same thing and he'd appeared behind her.

"Hmm, this seems familiar," a deep voice rises at her back.

Hawke turns, her lips cracking into an amused smile at the sight of Anders hovering behind her. "I was just thinking the same thing."

"You do tend to have a habit of standing out here. Do you think the door will just open on its own?"

"You never know," she chuckles, closing the distance between them and tipping her head back to meet his amber eyes. "They say magic is everywhere."

He groans, his chin dipping as he rests his brow against hers. "That was just horrible. You can come in, you know," he teases. "Though, I'm not sure if you'll want to. Things are a bit hectic right now. Word got around that I'm back and as you can see-" he swings open the door and Hawke gapes at the sight of the clinic brimming with people.

"What were you doing out there then?" she questions, stepping slowly into the confines.

"Ran out of lyrium."

Hawke pivots on her heels and glances back at him, noting the dark bruising shadowing under his eyes. They haven't even been back for a day yet and already he looks exhausted. Nodding at the packages cradled in his hands, her fingers fall to her overtunic and she yanks it off in a single pull before rolling up the sleeves to her blouse. "Put me to work then, oh great healer."

His lips pull into a crooked smile - the same one that stole her breath the first day they met - and he lowers the lyrium down onto his desk. "Are you sure? I don't want to take you away from -"

"Please," Hawke chuckles. "Less time spent with my mother right now the better. She's a little emotional."

Unspoken thoughts drift across his face, his countenance twisting under them. "That's understandable, don't you think? Had I not been down there with you, I would have gone mad with worry."

Her heart melts hearing those words and she tries to lighten the mood. "You mean you weren't worried while we were down there?"

His eyes deepen to a very dark topaz. "Terrified," he whispers honestly before wandering to his back room where she knows he keeps his personal belongings. For a moment, she hesitates, until he holds the door open, waiting for her.

"She'll be fine," Hawke assures him as she passes through the jamb. "Alistair is with her - he'll keep her busy, regaling her with grandiose stories of Carver."

Anders becomes as still as stone, his voice scalding. "Alistair is with your mother?"

Hawke swallows past a sudden lump in her throat. "Oh, right. He didn't have a place to stay so-"

"_Please_ do not tell me that you are letting him live with you." Like a cold breeze, his words whip around her.

Her teeth set into her lip, fingers twisting into the hem of her blouse. _Right_, she certainly hadn't thought of that when she'd offered to let him stay with her. She holds her tongue, unsure of how to defuse this situation.

In response to her silence, he whips around with a startling _crack_ from his hand. Hawke startles, jumping back as her eyes drop to find the back of the chair his fingers are wrapped around snapped in half.

Ribbons of blue silk braid over his flesh as he lifts his hands, cerulean fire kindling over his fingers. Livid winds howl around him, brackish and alien, as though a door has been thrown open to some world unseen before.

"Anders," she whispers, slowly toeing away from him. For a moment, she fears Justice rising to the surface, but it's still his amber eyes, though they've shifted to a topaz so dark, they appear almost black.

"You're letting a _templar_ live with you," he growls. "Not just _any_ templar, but one that has on more than one occasion made it known that he cares for you-"

"Anders," she murmurs, her hand reaching for his. Only at the last moment do the flames creeping up his arm extinguish and she twines their fingers together. "Just because Alistair has feelings for me doesn't mean that anything is going to happen. Please, give me a little credit."

His shoulders round with her words and he nods, the clinic returning to normal when he turns away. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "It's... been a long day. I'm a little tired."

"I can see that," she sighs. She closes the distance between them and folds into his chest, her arms resting around his waist. "I can help. Just tell me what to do."

His eyes grow hooded as he nods, burying his lips into her hair. "There's some bandages over there. If you could bind the lesser wounds until I can get to them, that'd be great."

"Anything," she promises before rocking onto her toes and stretching up to steal his lips.

-.-

Her nerves are absolutely shot. There's no reason to be so anxious; it's simply a day meant to be spent with friends and family. Varric had, at first, offered to throw something together in the Hanged Man and Hawke had been quick to accept until Alistair mentioned her mother and uncle. After all they've been through, he felt it more appropriate to spend Satinalia with them. Which meant in her uncle's hovel. There's no way she would bring her mother to the Hanged Man.

She lifts her eyes from the small cell she calls a room, shame coloring her cheeks. Only Alistair and Isabela have stepped within these walls. Hawke isn't entirely _proud _of the place she rests her head. Whatever her uncle has been doing all these years without them, well it certainly hadn't been cleaning. She doesn't even want to _imagine _what that bowl is off in the corner; it'd been there when she left for the deep roads. More than once, her mother has tried to pick up around the house but whenever she does, her uncle enters "Gamlen mode" as Hawke calls it, ranting and raving about how it's his abode and he doesn't need someone to clean up for him. Nothing could be farther from the truth, though.

A little over three weeks has passed since they've returned and her mother is no closer to acquiring the estate. Something to do with paperwork, which Seneschal Bran is reluctant to keep her informed about. In that stretch of time, Varric has left and already returned with a fair portion of the treasure they'd found, enough at least to begin salvaging that which once belonged to her mother's family. Hawke can't wait for the moment it's theirs - to be free of this place and the rats they share their living space with.

"Marian?" her mother's voice lifts from the door. "Some of your friends are here."

She sucks in a sharp breath and gently slides the partially sealed bag under her decrepit cot. A gentle sound rises from the folds and Hawke pulls down the cover before jerking to her feet and rushing toward the door. Excitement brews in her stomach. The only time she's seen Anders is in his clinic, with how busy he's been there and even then, she's put to work, bandaging wounds, and cooking food. The coin she possesses quickly goes to supplies for the Ferelden refugees and anyone else that comes looking for assistance. And of the few jobs she's taken on so far, nothing required his assistance, just little things here and there. She also knows that he's busy. After being gone for so long, it seems logical to assume his patients would need him. When she'd gone to him to invite him over for Satinalia, he'd shown reservations and that had frightened her more than anything. Eventually, he'd agreed when she had promised she won't keep him any longer than he feels comfortable staying. He worries over leaving his clinic for longer than a few hours these days.

In the rather small foyer, her gaze sweeps over the faces of those she calls friends; Aveline, Isabela, Varric, Fenris, Merrill... but no Anders. Her heart drops and that welcoming smile falters. After everything... and he's not here.

"Oh, _balls_, someone get her something to drink before _I _start crying," Isabela sighs, shoving past the others to sweep gracelessly into the hovel.

"Isabela," Varric laughs as they all follow after her, dropping a range of well-wrapped to scraggly looking gifts down on her uncle's table. "I don't think you even know _how _to cry."

"I don't," the pirate snaps. "But if I have to see that look again... I'm going to kill him."

"Who are we killing now?" a deep voice calls from the door.

Hawke stumbles and only manages to catch her balance at the last moment before turning to find Anders hovering in the doorway. Whatever fears she carries, whatever questions linger in her head, all of them vanish in a wake of mocking laughter - her own, of course. Because, at that exact moment, his face lights up, tawny eyes sparkling with happiness. Her shoulders round and the same smile pulls at her face. He _came_.

"Oh, this is worse," Isabela groans. "Now we get to watch them make goo goo eyes at each other all day."

He ducks beneath the door frame and steps inside. Not a moment later, his lips are on hers. Tension leaks from her muscles and she melts into him, taking his scent deep into her lungs.

"Andraste's knickers, that was the longest three weeks of my life," he whispers, dropping his brow down onto hers. She can't even begin to explain the euphoria roiling through her so she simply peers up at him and smiles. Even though they'd seen each other every day, it hadn't been the same. Not a moment of that had been spent alone. They'd shared glances and heated stares, but someone had always ruined the moment with their injuries or ailments.

"For me as well," she says under her breath. "Come on, I think it's time you finally met my mother."

His eyes widen as she tugs him out of the foyer and into the small hovel, navigating him through the maze of people huddling in the main room. She pushes open the door to the modest kitchen, biting her tongue when she feels him stiffen at the sight of Alistair standing next to her mother. The two have become as thick of thieves and if it wasn't for their age difference, Hawke likely would have started to wonder...

Only a couple weeks ago, Alistair finally told them that he'd never even met his mother or father, both long dead now. Hearing of his upbringing, it makes sense to her now why he clings to her mother.

"Mother," she calls, drawing both hers and Alistair's gazes away from the hen Hawke had acquired the day before. "This is Anders." Beaming, Hawke tips her head back and smiles, her thumb running faint circles over his knuckles.

He hardly manages a smile and Hawke nearly laughs aloud when she realizes he's nervous.

"It's nice to meet you, Mistress Amell," he stutters, his cheeks burning.

"Leandra," she chuckles. "Please. And it's nice to finally meet you, Anders. I've heard a great many things about you."

His free hand darts up to his mouth and he coughs anxiously into it, his gaze darting around the kitchen.

Even Alistair is bemused, slanting his hip against the counter as he watches them both.

"Marian didn't mention you are-"

"A mage?" Anders impedes her, shooting Hawke a nettling glare.

"I was going to say 'handsome," Leandra shook her head, chuckling lightly. "I actually did know you are a mage. She never _stops_ talking about that, in fact. How you run the clinic, how you escaped the tower -"

"Mother!" Hawke hisses, her fingers leaving Anders as she stalks forward. "I thought I told you not to embarrass me."

"That's my job in life though," her mother croons gently, leaning in to graze a quick peck on her daughter's cheek before reaching for a platter of food. "Don't leave your other guests unattended for too long, dear."

Alistair follows after her mother like a lost puppy and rolling her eyes, Hawke turns and leans against the counter, her eyes rising to Anders. There's a strange look passing over his face and she swallows what she'd intended to say.

"You told your mother about me?" he asks as softly as his steps carrying him across the kitchen.

"Um... yes? Was I not supposed to?"

They're such a small distance apart when he stops, blinking down on her. "No, I just..." She waits, swallowing past the nervous lump that has formed in her throat. This is their first time alone together since returning from the deep roads and that realization hasn't gone unnoticed by her. "I've just never had anyone tell their parents about me," he breathes, his gaze focused over her head. "Not many would willingly tell their mother that they are... uh," he clears his throat. "Well, I suppose _seeing_ an apostate mage."

Hawke laughs, her head falling back as the warm sound spills from her lips. "You forgot who she married."

"No, I didn't," he murmurs as his fingers trail the line of her jaw. "And you give yourself little credit. Very few would admit to such a thing. Especially with how things are lately."

"Anders," she says clearly, her fingers twining into his jacket and drawing his gaze back down on her. "The entire world should know that I care about an apostate mage, I don't care."

He sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing with her words. "That's dangerous, Marian."

Her heart melts at the sound of her name. "I don't care. These people, their opinions, they matter little to me. You're what's important-"

He stoops down and steals her lips, silencing her words with the brush of his tongue. Looping his arms around her waist, he snags her into his chest, crushing her tightly against him. The smallest sound of surprise spills into his mouth before she sinks into him, her hands curling around the back of his neck. He's the one to break from the kiss, and when he straightens, her heart flutter at the sight of his half lidded eyes.

"I don't know what I did to deserve someone like you," he whispers.

Her mouth tugs into a smile and she peers up at him from beneath the thick fringe of hair. "Just lucky, I suppose. Now, I have something for you - a gift."

He blinks, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. She tries not to follow the sweeping line of his tongue and instead leads him out of the kitchen and over to her so-called room.

"You got me a gift?" he asks as she pulls him in and closes the door. "You didn't have to do that."

"It's Satinalia!" she laughs before dropping down onto all fours and fishing under her cot for the bag.

"Uh Hawke?" he murmurs and she glances back over her shoulder in time to catch his gaze roaming over her proffered rear.

"That's not the gift!" she scolds him as her fingers latch onto the thin satchel. She draws it out carefully from the shadows before presenting it to him with a snaking grin.

"You got me a bag?" he teases. "Because I think I would have preferred the other -"

"Just open it!" she laughs, slapping his chest with the back of her hand.

He rolls his eyes before flipping open the flap. The moment Hawke has been anticipating, she rocks onto her toes, her teeth biting into her lower lip as she awaits his reaction.

His face blanks, his gaze darting between her and the bag countless times before he finally sucks in a shuddering breath. "You got this for me?"

She nods quickly, her face radiating excitement. "What do you think?"

"I..." he falls silent, still staring down into the pouch.

Hawke crosses the short distance between them and delves her hands into the bag, her fingers curling around something soft before hefting the small ball out. She'd seen this while walking through Lowtown not two days ago, hidden in a darkened corner, mewling for his lost mother. The moment she'd picked the kitten up, she'd known she wanted Anders to have him. She'd done a quick lap around Lowtown, searching in vain for this kitten's mother, but no one seemed to know a thing. Deciding that he'd been abandoned, Hawke immediately brought him home.

"He doesn't have a name," she told him. "I thought I'd leave that to you... if you want him that is. If you don't, we can find him a good home, but I just thought -"

Soft lips fall against hers again and Hawke staggers back, struggling to find her balance after the sudden attack. She laughs against his mouth and sinks into him once more, careful not to crush the poor kitten between them.

"How did you know?" he asks when he draws back.

"You told me about Mr. Wiggums and I just thought you might like having a cat again."

"I would," he nods. "But I don't know if Darktown is the best place for him, not this young."

"That's all right," she tells him, lifting the kitten to her face and rubbing her cheek against him. A soft mewl rises between them and a gentle paw bats at her nose. Chuckling, she brushes her lips against his head and glances up at Anders. "He can stay here with us. Hopefully we'll be in the estate soon, lots of room for him to run about there. That is... if you don't mind him staying with me. What do you think?"

His arms curve around her waist and he drags her forward, tucking her into his chest. "What do I think?" he repeats, his mouth burying into her hair. "I think I love you."

Hawke's breath catches when the words leave his mouth. Her muscles tense but just as quickly, the stiffness vanishes. "That's okay," she murmurs against his chest, her fingers stroking down the kitten's back. "I _know_ I do."

His arms constrict against her, his sigh ruffling the hair against her cheek. "I actually have something for you as well."

"You do?" she questions, tipping her head back. For a breadth, she's startled by the look on his face. He doesn't look peaceful, or content, he looks frightened, not exactly something one would expect after admitting their shared feelings. She remembers everything he told her in the deep roads - how he fears hurting her. Is that what frightens him?

His hand rummages into his pocket and he draws something out, eyeing it, a warm smile finally claiming his mouth. "The first time I escaped the tower, I remember thinking I was going to experience everything life had to offer. I didn't make it more than a few days, I already told you that. And those few days were spent ducking the templars. My second attempt, however, I was rescued by the most gorgeous woman I've ever met - and Maker, could she climb trees," he winks, before continuing with a soft chuckle. "Most of it was spent drunk, and the rest... well," now he's blushing and turns his gaze down to the kitten. "We don't need to go into that."

Hawke's lips crack into a grin. She can only imagine what he did for the rest.

"The third thing I did was pierce my ear," he tells her. "And this little bauble was the first thing beyond food and liquor that I purchased - with stolen gold, of course, but still."

"Oh, so I bought that for you?" she teases, leaning over to inspect the golden ring. "Nice. Glad I could get you something pretty."

He lets out a laugh - weary and ragged around the edges, but it's there. How Hawke loves the sound of it, he does it so rarely. "I suppose you did. Either way, when I was returned to the tower, this was my symbol for freedom. Mages aren't allowed personal possessions, yet somehow this earring went unnoticed by them and I wore it up to the day I became a Grey Warden."

"Why did you take it out?" she asks.

He shifts with a heavy sigh. "Because the person that wore this earring no longer existed. I was a Grey Warden, no longer a mage of Kinloch Hold. I remember staring in a mirror and no longer recognizing who I was. I took the earring out that day, but I've always kept it. It means a lot to me - it got me through a lot in the tower." He pauses, his gaze swinging back up to hers. "I want you to have it."

Hawke's breath catches. "You want _me_ to have this? But you just said how much it means to you, I couldn't -"

"You can," he tells her softly, his fingers threading through the loose hair falling over her shoulder. "I want you to have it because you represent everything this earring once did. _You've_ become the symbol of my freedom. I never thought, in all my years, that I would ever find what I hold here in my hands. In the circle, love was only a game, something for the templars to hold over and use against you. It there was even _one thing_ that they could control, something you couldn't stand to lose, they had the upper hand. I _never_ gave them that. Marian... it would _kill _me to lose you..."

Her hands rise to cup his cheeks and she offers him the warmest smile she can muster. "You aren't going to lose me, I promise."

"Don't make promises you have no control over," he shakes his head. "Neither of us know what the future has in store-"

"Anders," she whispers. "_Nothing_ other than death can take me from you."

His throat works as he struggles to swallow. "Then you understand my fear, finally. The templars have no qualms about stealing loved ones way. L-Look at what happened to your father..."

Wanting only to cheer him up, Hawke rises on her tiptoes once more and brushes her lips across his, her fingers gently lifting the earring from his palm. "I'm not my father," she told him, ignoring the twist in her stomach. "I'm not a mage. The templars have no power over me."

A soft knock on the door rouses both their attention. "Hey, you two," Isabela calls through the door. "We want to open gifts and we're getting tired of waiting for you! Throw some clothes on already and get out here before I come in after you!"

"Isabela," Hawke groans.

"Why are their clothes off?" Merrill questions in her lilting voice. "Are they comparing scars?"

"_What?_" Isabela laughs. "Oh, kitten, they're comparing something all right, but I doubt it's scars."

"What else could it be?" the elf's voice fades away as Isabela leads her back toward the group.

"Think about it," is the last thing they hear.

"Come on," Hawke says, shaking her head. "We _really_ should get out there before my mother comes looking for us next."

He nods, a doleful look crossing his face.

"Don't look so sad, it's a happy occasion!" she teases, her fingers curling protectively around the earring. Never has someone given her something so cherished and her heart swells with the thought of it. "Come show everyone your new kitten."

She leads him out of the door and back to the room where everyone is seated casually, laughing and talking among one another. The sight tightens Hawke's stomach. She may have had to travel from Ferelden to Kirkwall, but it looks like she's finally found herself a family and nothing could make her happier.


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Hey! Sorry it took me a day or two longer than I promised last chapter, but work took me out of the city for a few days and I didn't get back till late last night, so I got this up as soon as I could! I hope you all enjoy it! Thank you to everyone that is following along! It always makes my day when that email pops up saying someone has added this story to any of the alerts or reviewed, or whatever xD So keep doing that! I *love* it, so so much! _

_You may notice I'm not taking a linear path to these quests, I figure: meh, let's have some fun and mix it up a little lol. You may also have noticed that we're back from the deep roads and they don't have the mansion yet. Well, I figure the Act 1 quests can be used to pass the 3 yrs between 1 and 2 lol. But I won't be dealing too much with 'time', so it's just going to be whatever quests are useful to the story line xD_

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**Chapter 26**

-Anders-

He doesn't dare move, lest he wake her, and the sight of her stretched next to him, her olive skin dusky colored in the dim light of his clinic is enough to drive him mad with mindless want. He can't keep her, he knows this - Justice knows this as well, it's part of the reason he's kept so quiet. This is nothing more than a dream for him, a chance to live out what he's always desired above all else. If he succeeds in his mission, ten years, a hundred years from now, someone like him will love someone like her, and it won't be doomed. But until that day, this is what he gets: stolen moments on a dingy cot in a shambling, rotted room, with the one he loves tucked in against him. It isn't so bad, thinking about it that way.

_Until you remember that the templars will slay her just for being with you_.

Anders' mouth thins with a wry twist that does not soften his indignation. _Thank you, Justice, for ruining this moment_.

_It was already ruined, you refuse to let yourself see._

_I see quite well. I simply refuse to let them have this right now_, Anders tells the spirit within.

_This woman is... peculiar. Kristophe's memories have provided a comparison, yet the two appear to be quite similar. I find my emotions are conflicted. She sees the plight of the mages better than any non-mage. But it is still wrong. You will hesitate_.

Justice is conflicted about Hawke?_ Is it so wrong to love someone,_ he demands heatedly.

The spirit's spark flickers, like a candle in the wind, but his words ease through Anders' mind without recrimination. _You are not fighting for your freedoms, you are fighting for _all _mages. You cannot be selfish in this matter, and you cannot sway from your task_.

Anders' gaze drops down onto Hawke, his eyes lingering on the lithe shoulder barely poking out from the sheet, before dragging down to her narrow waist, and their entwined legs. Through the midst of her dreams, she's grown tangled in the sheets, in ways he can't even begin to sort out. It's a rather cute sight, watching as her small fist snatches into the sheets, her lips quirking with a faint smile. How he wishes he could see what she dreams. Is she chasing bandits, like dogs do rabbits? Or are they gentler than that, with kittens and rainbows? For some reason, he's more inclined to believe she's chasing bandits.

"Am I not a mage?" he whispers under his breath. Her skin is so soft beneath his touch, so smooth as he caresses the length of her side. The thought of waking beside her for the rest of his life is _intoxicating_. Justice's aversion to such idle fantasies is deafening, and wincing, Anders quiets his mind.

A smile stretches over her lips as she shifts, stirring from her dreams. The cot shifts as she does, flopping over to bury her face in his neck.

"You smell good," she whispers drowsily, fingers toying beneath the thin sheet, which does very little to keep her hidden.

"Do I? And what do I smell like?"

His flesh puckers when she inhales deeply, those mindless fingers fetching against him under the covers. His body tenses, his heart suddenly hammering when they close gently around his length.

"Mm, like magic," she breathes.

Never has anyone complimented him on his scent before, but Hawke is like no other. This is the woman that found him a cat, all because he told her of Mr. Wiggums. "And, what does magic smell like?" he muses, lowering over her to drag kisses down her cheek and jaw.

"Like Anders," she giggles, and he stills. Hawke never giggles, not that he's once heard. The sound is quite effeminate and his stomach warms. "Like earth, and herbs... Like _home_," her breath ghosts over his throat. He has to force himself to swallow. Home. No one has ever spoken of it in such a way. He is no one's home. Yet, she wriggles against him and settles lower, her chilled nose running lines over his neck. Maker, he's never felt such an unbridled want before. Moments ago, he'd been attempting to make peace with the fact that he couldn't keep her, but now, even with Justice's thoughts roaring angrily through his head, he knows - he'll never let her go.

"Knew I'd find you here," an amused voice rises from the jamb.

Hawke gasps and darts up in the cot, her fingers releasing him to clutch tightly at the thin sheet covering them. "Varric!" she shouts. "What in the Maker's name are you doing here?"

"Not the Maker's," he chuckles. "Harrowmont."

Anders silently chuckles at the dwarf's gall, though Hawke does not appear to be amused at all, staring at the dwarf like he's lost his mind. "Should I know this name?"

"Not yet, but you're about to. Word is traveling fast of the great Marian Hawke - pervader of the deep roads, treasure seeker, and Goddess of Love."

A dark blush chases over her cheeks and she ducks her head, fingers still wrapped tightly in the sheet. Though, Anders doubts it's keeping her hidden from prying eyes, if Varric's curled lips are evident of anything.

"And you wouldn't have anything to do with those rumors, now would you?" Hawke demands in a low voice.

"I only write the truth, my lady," Varric informs them before slanting against the door jamb and picking calmly at the loose bits of wood flaking away. "Is it my fault that you and Blondie here have been less than discreet about your fiery love affair? Andraste's tits, Hawke, the pages nearly set themselves aflame just writing about this sordid relationship."

"It's more than just an _affair_!" Hawke snaps, turning a burning glare his way. Anders' snicker does slip past his lips this time. Even he knows that is very much the wrong thing to say in the presence of their nosy dwarven friend. She comes to the realization, herself, when Varric grins lewdly, and she snaps her jaw shut. Anders is impressed she doesn't burn a hole right through the sheets, she's staring so hard.

"Is that a fact?" Varric muses, his fingers stilling in their ministrations. "Well, now. I'll have to keep that in mind for the next installment."

"Varric..." Anders startles at the low vibrating growl from deep in her chest. It seems she's been taking lessons from their resident mage-hater.

"You can't stop it, Hawke," Varric teases. "So you may as well just give in. Tell me everything... like how does Justice feel about this little tryst? Or... does he partake? Hawke... I never would have thought-"

"You wanted something Varric?" Anders pushes to his elbows, interrupting before Hawke murders one of her closest friends.

She drops her head against her knees, groaning into the sheets.

"Nice ass, Hawke," Varric laughs before pushing off the frame and entering the room. Anders nearly burst out laughing at the irritation rippling over her face. "Lord Harrowmont is having some... difficulties, let's say, with the carta."

"The carta," Anders repeats, pushing higher until the sheets pool in his lap. Hawke lets out a choked curse and clutches at the corners, spearing him with an annoyed stare. "Getting involved with the carta is dangerous."

"You're telling me," he chuckles as he crosses over to Anders' desk, thumbing through his loose vellum. "Andraste's dimpled butt cheeks, Blondie-"

"I'll thank you not to touch that," he grumbles, lightning suddenly crackling between his fingers. The last person he wants snooping through his personal manifesto is Varric. Warmth grazes over him and he startles, swallowing his loosed magic at the last moment so not to harm Hawke. It's the faintest of smiles that graces her lips, yet his heart stutters. Not a hint of reproach darkens her face. Every mage could do with a Hawke, they'd never turn to blood magic again. It's too bad he's not willing to part with his.

"Shit, Blondie, I doubt even I'm enough of a logophile to tackle this jumble of words."

"It's not organized yet," he defends his piece in a haughty voice. "Let me _finish_ it, and then you'll have the opportunity to read it."

Varric pushes away from the small writing desk, jutting up against the wall instead, his shoulder holding it in place. "What are you two still doing in bed? I _just_ told you we have work to do."

Hawke's mouth falls open, her eyes darting between the two of them. "If you _think_-"

"We need to make use of some of that gold we've collected to. Get you something... pretty to wear."

She chokes on what she'd been saying, her lips moving soundlessly before she finally finds her voice once more. "_Pretty_? Varric, I don't do _pretty_-"

"Well, time to start then, wouldn't you think?" he sniggers, elbowing off the wall and toeing her random scattering of clothing. "Can't meet the Arishok dressed like a vagabond."

She sucks in a sharp breath, her gaze darting to Anders' quickly. "The Arishok?" She pales, yet even ashen, she's still just as beautiful.

"Can't make a name for yourself around this place without people taking notice," Varric murmurs as he stoops over and sweeps up a garment abandoned to the top of the pile.

Hawke nearly tears out of their bunk at the sight of the dwarf holding up a band of cloth she wears around her breast to display. It's only the gentle press of Anders fingers in the nook of her elbow that reminds her she isn't clothed and she settles back against the wall, glaring irately.

"What... _is_ this?" Varric questions, turning it over and over, eying it with interest. Anders works his lower lip, worrying that this situation might _actually_ grow out of hand.

"It's _nothing_," she snaps, her fingers curling dangerously into the sheets.

"Humans," he sighs. "You'd never catch dwarven women tying themselves down with something like this."

"If you knew what it was, then why did you ask?" she spits, the muscles in her jaw leaping as her jaw grinds.

"Mostly to see that look on your face - yes, that one," he chuckles before throwing the fabric toward the bed.

"Armor isn't exactly made for women, in case you haven't realized that yet," she grumbles, snatching the fabric off the covers and sliding it beneath.

"I've told you more than once that you needed to stop dressing like a man," he laughed, clearly aware of her anger but adamant to ignore it. "Now, as I said, the Arishok wants to see you, as well as Lord Harrowmont. Wear something... _frilly_."

"Varric," Anders sighs. "Can you leave, please? Just... wait out in the main clinic. We'll be out in a few minutes."

The dwarf shoots him a tempered stare. "I'll be counting, Blondie. No... side adventures."

Varric slips out of the room, politic enough to close the door behind him, at the least.

"Blighted dwarf," Hawke snarls under her breath as she slides out from beneath the covers and starts gathering her gear. "I'll show _him_ frilly."

Chuckling, Anders reaches for her and ensnares her hips, yanking her back down onto the cot. For the first time that he can ever recall, a startled yip rips free of her lips. His Hawke, always so aware of her surroundings, so cautious of where she steps... _surprised? _He pulls her beneath him, his shadow hovering over her like a thundercloud.

"Anders, we-"

"Have a few minutes," he teases gently, slanting his mouth over hers before she can object, his tongue thoroughly sweeping through her mouth, and teeth dragging over her lips. She tastes so sweet, and he drops down atop her, devouring her until her breath quickens. He breaks away, his groin thickening at the sight of her hooded eyes and swollen lips. "I'm game, if you are."

"Game?" she murmurs.

Anders offers her a crooked grin before dropping down and sliding within her. Her head falls back, her mouth parting sensually as her lashes flutter against her cheek.

"_Oh_," she breathes before her teeth set into her lower lip.

"Yes?" he whispers in her ear, nibbling up the length. He's already moving within her, and her fractured breath does more than he could possibly have imagined. He sinks into her, his absolute need almost stealing control.

"Yes," she pants, her hips lifting to meet his with equal abandon.

Groaning, he lets his desire set the pace and everything else fall away. All he sees is his Marian stretched beneath him, her back bowing off the bed as she succumbs to their passions. All he hears is the sound of her hurried breath as she snatches at the air, and of their bodies coming together. All he feels are her fingers digging into his back and his only thought is for her to grip harder. All he tastes is her delectable lips and beaded sweat when his tongue laves over her throat.

All he wants is _her._

**-.-**

-Hawke-

"Serrah Hawke."

Though she's met the Arishok before, the deep voice still startles her. Her tongue darts over her lips until she can work up enough moisture to speak. "Messere," she murmurs, her head dipping in a formal nod.

"Last we met, I did not know your name. Like all the others, you were simply one among them wallowing in filth and mindless greed."

She blinks, her mouth pursing as she bites back her words. It likely wouldn't do well for her to sass the Arishok, though the temptation is there. Ignoring the uncaring stare he pins her with, he'd likely attempt to swat her down should he find her disrespectful. And while Hawke has fought plenty of qunari, the Arishok is something else entirely. Though, at least to herself, she can admit that there's a temptation to test her blades against his - know who the better fighter is. Could she best the military leader of the qunari?

"Should have worn the frills," Varric sighed, shifting his weight to his back leg.

"You do not wear _frills _to meet a military leader," Hawke hisses under her breath, still annoyed with her friend, though not enough to deny him the opportunity to tag along.

"No, you do not," Fenris chimes in. "The qunari respect strength and honor - not... ball gowns."

"Oh! Is there to be a ball?" Merrill muses, her gaze clouding over as she quietly begins to hum to herself, her hips sashaying to a beat only she can here.

Hawke scratches at her brow and turns her gaze back up toward the Arishok. "And now?" she continues with their conversation.

"Yes," he snarls, his lips drawing back disdainfully. It would appear that the Arishok does not like being interrupted. "I hear your name on many lips. It seems you have changed your fortune, the qunari have not."

She offers a simple shrug. "Well, there's plenty of fortune to be had in the deep roads. I'm sure renowned warriors such as the qunari would be just as successful. Watch out for the broodmothers, though. They're a bitch to fight."

The image in her mind sparks her pulse and she hopes she's the only one that can hear it. Most nights, her dreams are still filled with the sight of that creature, all wriggling limbs and teats. Her mouth dries with the memory of the darkspawn hovering over her, that foul substance dripping over their lips as they attempt to force feed it to her. She'd been lucky. If Anders hadn't found her, she'd _still _be trapped below ground, in the confining press of those tunnels, bringing more of the wretched spawn into the world.

A clawed hand falls on her arm and she tears her eyes free of the dusty spot she'd been staring to find Fenris watching her queerly. His chin jerks toward the dais where the Arishok watches intently.

Her face crumples for a moment, before she locks her emotions up and feeds him a blank stare. "Forgive me," she offers accordingly. "The deep roads are not a place I would willingly return to."

"We are not speaking of the deep roads," the Arishok growls. "You humans allow the slightest distractions to sway you. I have brought you here with a purpose."

Hawke waves a dismissive hand, silently trying to beat away the images that still form behind her eyes. _Focus_.

"I offer you a courtesy, nothing more," he continues, pushing up from his seat to stalk the length of the platform. "Someone has stolen what he thinks to be the formula for gaatlock. You will want to hunt him."

"I will?" she muses, slinking forward to approach the platform. She eyes the steps, tempted to launch herself up there and speak with him on an equal level. She's never been one for proprieties. If the dais wasn't surrounded by his own personal guards - which she's sure carry their own rank, one she doesn't know - she'd try for it. But with no healer present, it wouldn't do for her to take a spear in the arm or something, and certainly she wouldn't make it unscathed. The temptation remains, however. "And why would I want to hunt this person? It's your formula, what does it mean to me?"

A flash of ire scours the Arishok's face and he curves back in his chair. "A thousand lives. The stolen formula was a decoy. Saar-qumek, a poisonous gas, was stolen - not explosives. A small amount is dangerous enough to your kind," he states with a sneer.

"Yes, my kind can be pesky that way. Poisons, pestilence, war, these things tend to cause us harm," Hawke opines sardonically.

The Arishok does not appear to be amused by her humor. "If made in quantity, with the intent to make profit off it, perhaps..." he lets his sentence drift off as he actually shrugs.

"So you come to me?" she asks. "You've not kept it a secret that you loathe Kirkwall and her inhabitants. Why help us?"

"I have long thought that this city would destroy itself. It would only hasten the inevitable," he informs her.

"And a slow death is more preferable, is that what you're saying?"

"Hawke," Fenris whispers at her side, his hand once more holding her back when she nearly does spire the dais.

A thick layer of anger coats her tongue and her hands dance down to the belt that hold her daggers. Her thumbs run in smooth lines over the hilts and for one laconic moment, the Arishok and Hawke lock eyes, a silent challenged issue between them.

"Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention," she spits out the words before turning away from him and stalking off with her companions tight at her side.

"Harrowmont is just down by the waterfront," Varric murmurs quietly. "We're here, maybe we should help him before we start searching for whoever stole this poison gas?"

Hawke nods, her mind spinning. She's heard no talk of poisonous gas _yet_ and her first thought it to return to Anders, see if any of his patients have come in with symptoms - though, what symptoms she has no idea. Poisonous gas can mean so many things. From what poison's she's studied, some render all muscle control, some work through the body and invade until it fails entirely, others cause madness, there's a range. There are too many for her to even contemplate. Imagining a poison developed by the qunari is a frightful notion. Known for their warfare, she can only envision what this gas can do.

Varric leads them down a winding path, pausing only at the last moment when a startled shout echoes in the distance. Hawke's thoughts snap into place and before a word can be spoken, the group bolts forward, weapons brandished as they whip around the final corner.

The sight before them seems typical and Hawke launches into the impending battle with little thought. She looses her daggers from her belt and slides into the shadows, positioning herself behind the first carta member. At the last moment, she lunges out and drags her blade across their exposed throat, hardly pausing before pivoting and launching toward the next one.

"It's the Hawke!" one of the carta member's roar.

Always good to be known - seems to be a common occurrence now, since returning from the deep roads. But for the carta to know her, it's a little strange. She's had no dealing with dwarves, beyond Varric. Even stranger still is when they suddenly tuck tail and run away. Weapons clatter to the ground and the small force vanishes into the shadows, abandoning those that they attacked.

"Well... that was easy," Varric mutters as he sidles up next to her.

"Too easy," is her response as she turns to take in the sight of the dwarves standing behind them.

"Hawke, this is Lord Harrowmont. Lord Harrowmont, the now infamous Hawke."

Hawke dips her head in acknowledgment before turning away and allowing Varric to handle the details. With a gentle touch on Fenris' shoulders, the two move as one, scouring the surrounding shadows for any remaining carta members, but the area remains deserted.

"I do not like this," Fenris grumbles at her side.

Nodding, Hawke straightens with a furrowed brow. "Did it give anyone else chills the way they said my name?"

"I liked it," Merrill chirped gleefully. "_The _Hawke. It made you sound like a princess."

Hawke balks, shifting to watch her. "Sometimes, Merrill... you say the strangest things."

Her wide shimmering eyes bounce between Hawke and Fenris. "Did I miss something?"

"Almost entirely," Fenris states before doing another lap of the clearing.

Listening with half an ear, Hawke takes note of Varric leading Lord Harrowmont up a plank toward his ship. Apparently they are making their way their Rivain, though why, she doesn't know. Only snatches of the conversation could be heard, something about a Prince Bhelen.

"Here," Varric thrusts his fist forward, proffering her something the moment the Lord and his entourage are loaded safely onto the ship.

Hawke extends her hand, startling when the clink of gold spills into her palm. "What's this for?"

"Payment," Varric laughs. "Lord Harrowmont's thanks for saving his life."

A faint laugh spills from her lips. "I didn't _do_ anything. I showed up, they cried my name, and ran away."

"Classifies as something in my books," he grins. "Come on. Let's figure out this poison gas nonsense so we can all go for a drink after."

She nods once more. "I was thinking we should talk to Anders. See if any of his patients have come in with any strange symptoms."

Varric's head falls back and he lets loose a loud laugh. "Should have known you'd find a reason to seek out Blondie. Come on then."

**-.-**

Screams. Shouts. Cries. Panic.

Hawke's head whips around as she tries to sort through it all. They've only just climbed the stairs leading into Lowtown when a mass hysteria sweeps over them. People run in every direction, chased by putrid coils of rotten air, clutching at their throats before they collapse in a quivering pile.

"Shit!" Varric shouts. "I think we're about to find this poisonous gas."

The majority of panic appears to be coming from a small alleyway just next to the alienage. Merrill steps forward, her emerald eyes shimmering with tears. "We need to do something!"

Hawke lets loose a vile string of Fereldan invectives before launching forward in the direction of the outpouring crowd. Varric and Fenris bellow her name but she's faster than them.

"Stay!" she orders them. "Help those you can!"

"Hawke!" Varric shouts. "We _need_ Blondie."

"Then go get him," she yells over her shoulder before whipping around the corner.

Her heels dig into the flagstone and she rocks to a stop, a foul viridian fog slapping her in the face. Waves of people flock against her and she has to dive through the masses, fighting to reach the gas. She pauses only for a second to tear a strip off the lower hem of her favorite overtunic and tie it over her mouth and nose. It does nothing to abate the sudden searing in her eyes, but she needs to be able to see.

Hawke presses her hand atop the cloth, hoping it will be enough to protect her from it, though it seems unlikely when her lungs immediately begin to burn. Liquid fire pours down her throat and soon, a racking cough consumes her.

It's a challenge to see through the haze and her eyes squint in her struggle. Shadows whisk around her, but with every blink, they shift and move. It isn't until her foot catches against something solid and heavy that she stumbles forward, the ground rushing up to her knees. Maker, she can't remember ever finding it so difficult to push back to her feet. Her fingers clutch at whatever it was she tripped over and she pulls herself up inch by inch.

Sweat runs in rivulets down her face, blinding what little vision she has. Moments pass as she tries to collect her breath, but it's pure agony when she inhales. Something catches against her fingers and she pauses, running them along a strange rim that she can't see. At the far end, they catch against a latch and the barrel suddenly clicks shut. The relief is instantaneous and she sucks in a moderately clean breath.

A shadow passes before her and Hawke instantly latches onto her daggers, slicing through the obscure air. She can't _see_ anything beyond faint outlines whipping around her. Hawke strikes again and again, her daggers never landing a blow. She drags her sleeve across her brow, mopping up the perspiration.

"Who's there?" she demands, spinning in a tight circle when a crazed laugh rises behind her. It's the only answer she's offered.

There must be more barrels, it seems the only logical explanation for the thick brume of poison still wafting through the air. Hawke banishes the shadows from her thoughts and focuses on her purpose, sealing off the poison - quite the challenge when she can't see anything. Feeling her way around the clearing, she mindlessly seeks out the different sources. With every barrel she seals off, more shadows begin to gather around her, taunting her as their deranged laughter chases after her.

She reaches the final barrel and nearly collapses from relief when the latch clicks shut. Without the gas pouring through the streets, it slowly begins to lift, revealing the army of shadows circling endlessly around her. Hawke's hands tighten on her hilts as she grows dizzy. So many shadows whipping around her, endlessly, driving her mad.

A low shout muffled by her cloth cover rises in the small alleyway and she strikes out again and again, her blades _never_ connecting. Frustration bubbles within her and she hastens her speed. More of that mocking laughter echoes in her head, but whenever she spins, it's gone, the source nowhere to be found, only their lingering shadow remains.

"Hawke!" voices scream her name and she startles, blinking to clear her vision.

It's Fenris and Varric she sees first, standing atop the stairs across the alley.

"Are you all right?" Varric calls to her.

Hawke spins once more, the heels of her palms and hilts of her daggers pressing into her eyes. Voices slither through her mind, and imaginary fingers graze over her exposed flesh, threading through her hair. And their laughter... _Maker_, their laughter... it's the most unnerving sound she's ever heard. Her heart thumps in her chest, desperately loud, and she can feel it, pushing the poison through her system.

"Hawke," this voice is closer, deeper, and familiar. She whips around, her blade striking out. Lambent light erupts around her and she staggers forward when her dagger phases through what she's sure is Fenris' neck.

"Hawke!" Varric shouts.

Her breath catches at the sight before her. She very nearly split Fenris' throat, and would have, if not for his unique abilities.

"Fenris - I -" she chokes on her words. Her face pinches when the shadows start dancing around her once more, the deafening noises roaring through her head. "The gas," she stutters, her palm wiping at her brow once more. "The poison, I - I can't - voices, shadows, it's... it's too much."

"Get her out of here," Fenris growls, his fingers sealing gently around her shoulders and guiding her out behind Varric.

"Come on, Hawke," Varric comments. "Just... take it easy. We'll get you some fresh air and everything will make sense again."

**-.-**

-Anders-

It's like the deep roads all over again.

He'd been organizing his potions when Merrill suddenly burst through his clinic doors, eyes wide and panting for air. He only made out a few words, something about _Hawke _and _poison_.

With Dread hot on his heels, he'd chased after Merrill, letting her lead the way. He has no idea where they are heading, no idea what is happening, but his heart is heavy with fear. The only thing he can discern is that Hawke is in trouble and that's enough.

Lowtown - the streets are in a tumultuous uproar. People everywhere, hugging their knees as they sink into corners. Tears, whimpers, screams, it's everywhere. His feet slow as he takes it in, it's like a disaster has struck with all the random bodies strewn within the streets, shaking with coughs and violent tremors.

"Over here!" Merrill cries out, directing them around a corner.

Anders is about to put on another bout of speed when three shadows emerge from this green cloud. The healer in him knows they are safe where they stand, the fresh air abating the poison, but those three had come _out_ of the poison.

"Hawke!" Anders shouts, reaching forward to take her from the elf's grasp.

He leads her around the corner and fetches her up against the wall. A sheen of sweat glistens over her ashen face, her trembling lips nearly as white as the rest of her. He peers into her face, fear sliding down his throat when her clouded eyes look through him.

"Marian?" he whispers, his hands hovering over her body. He can't find any damage, but that doesn't seem right. Not with the state he's found her in.

She blinks, her vision clearing and locking with his. "Anders," she rasps.

His shoulders round with relief and he lets loose the breath he's been holding. "Good. All right. Let's get you-"

Something hot and wet splashes his face.

Anders startles and wipes his face, his heart turning to stone when his hand comes away red. Panic rises like whitewaters and he flicks a glance back up to Hawke, suddenly cold when he catches sight of the blood clinging to her lips and trailing down her chin in a rude rivulet.

She shivers in his hands, her sapphire eyes fading to a milky white, as a pained look sketches across her face. He's given no chance to cast a healing spell when she coughs up another mouthful, the splatter searing hot against his face once more.

She stumbles forward a half-step, her balance rocking her into his chest. Shocked, Anders' reaction is far too slow, he doesn't even think to try and catch her before she falls.


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Yay, another chapter! So, it has come time to name the kitten! And Anders offers two suggestion which you'll see in this chap! I would actually like to put the vote to the readers since I like both names, obviously haha... So in your review, tell me which one you'd prefer! _**  
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_Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading and following along, your reviews mean the world to me! Plus they serve as inspiration, woohoo! Hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm so excited for the next one! I have a great big surprise lined up for you guys. _

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**Chapter 27**

-Anders-

_All around him is the deep, empurpled masses of the forest. His robes drag against the knotted snarl of thicket, the tall vines and weeds coiling around his legs, as though they intend to aid the templars at his back. A thick root captures his foot and yanks him still, straining his hip to the point where a sharp cry spills from his lips. He staggers forward, his hands slapping against a thick trunk to keep him from tumbling to his knees. Maker, at this rate the templars are going to catch him by sunset. _

"_Hey!" a low voice hisses above him, quiet so not to be heard by the impending battalion breathing down his neck. His chin snaps up to find a heavily shadowed figure perched above him, dangling from the branches themselves. _

"_Up here!" they beckon, dropping seamlessly down to the lower level._

_He can't tell if it's a male or female but from the soft voice, his thoughts are leaning toward the softer, rounder sex. He jerks his head back over his shoulder, eyeing the flashes of silver drowsing through the trees._

_She drops before him, the most startling pair of blue eyes he's ever seen flashing at him from deep within the thick shadows of her woolen hood. "Hurry up!" she orders. "Go on! Get up there!"_

_Up there... as in the trees? His head tips back and his eyes climb the massive height of the tree. Could he do it? He's never climbed anything in his life, unless stairs counted, which he somehow doubts. _

_She turns away from him before lowering into the plush cover, her fingers tearing through the brush as though searching for something. He doesn't waste any more time. She'd made it look so easy to scale this thing... He digs his fingers into the gnarled wood and propels himself up. His hip groans in agony, but he pushes the pain aside, _refusing_ to let those blighted templars catch him again. _

_He's halfway up when he hears her soft catch of breath and he glances down to find her watching him in awe. She places a thin finger to her lips, cautioning him to keep quiet before she continues to propel herself up toward him. _

_Just beneath him, she fishes something out of her overtunic before drawing her bow. Through slitted eyes, he watches as she nocks the string and pulls it back, touching it gracefully to her lips. His gaze trails the plump swell of her mouth, and he's taken over by a sudden wonderment. _

_Quiet shouts beneath them snap him out of his reverie and he watches as her shoulders release the tension, her fingers releasing the bow before quickly nocking it once more. A few moments pass as he watches, curious as to her purpose. But when the templars dart off in a new direction, their incensed voices diminishing in the trees, a swell of relief slackens his body. _

_She continues to release her next round, pushing the templars further and further away. His mouth twists into a pleased grin and he drops down onto her branch, a faint laugh spilling from his lips when she gasps and whips around, her fingers immediately gripping against the trunk for balance. Sometime during all the excitement the hood that had veiled her face fell back and he studies her softly rounded face. _

"_Thanks!" he chuckles, so tempted to brush back the thick fringe of hair sweeping across her brow. It impedes the sight of her eyes and those are something he never intends to forget. His eyes drop down her length, briefly landing on the swollen purse tied to her belt, next to her _very_ sharp daggers. Hoping she didn't notice his attentions, he stretches his arm over her shoulder, fingers the plumed arrows strapped to her back. "But why didn't you just kill them?"_

_Her gaze darts everywhere, refusing to meet his. His savior... shy? How adorable. The corners of his mouth tug upward and he presses a slight bit closer, laughing silently when her eyes fly wide. _

"_Dead templars would cause trouble. We don't need them in our village," she hefts a shrug, but her nervousness is palpable. _

_Oh, how he loves freedom. How he loves the _women_ out here. In the tower, having grown up with them all, this sort of sheepishness is non-existent. It's endearing, the faint blush chasing over her cheeks. The concept of meeting a stranger, experiencing the emotions heating his stomach, it's more than he ever dreamed. This is his second time escaping the tower - the first he hadn't made it more than a few days. He hadn't been given a chance to experience any of this. And he finds himself wanting to experience more. _

_He's had his fair share of women, they liked his rebellious talk, but the women in the tower are old news. Faces he's grown up with, faces he's been condemned to spend the rest of his life seeing. But this face... and Maker is she beautiful. Her eyes are like an ocean, swelling with emotion. And that mouth... the way it bows, tempting him to claim it. _

"_You don't like templars?" he finds himself asking instead, intrigued by her story. He can't imagine there are many in this world that would willingly help a mage. Magic is inherently evil, or so the Chantry preached. Sympathisers are rarely shown any mercy. _

_Her face twists in a most enrapturing way, her straight little nose scrunching. It's adorable, a thought that shocks him. He's never found a woman's nose _adorable_ before, but the way it wrinkles with disgust, his mouth crooks. _

"_T-They killed my father," she admits, her eyes widening with the admission. _

_Even Anders' breath catches. This creature before him comes from magic? He knows she isn't a mage, there's no sense of the fade about her at all, even if he is to ignore the bow strapped to her back. So the genes hadn't passed to her, but she knows about mages. "Your father was a mage," he states gently, his voice confident in this assumption._

_Templars only bother themselves with mages. There's no other explanation for why they would kill him. Fire ignites in the lowest pit of his stomach with the thought that they've destroyed yet another family. He can't even remember his mother's face and here is another child of magic, ripped away from her father. _

_He presses closer to her, drawing her earthy scent deep into his lungs. Never has he smelled anything so delicious and arousing before. The women in the tower always reek of incense and herbs. But this woman... she smells of oakmoss, and sunshine. _

"_Thank you," he murmurs once more, his fingers gently tucking a stray hair behind her ear. The softest breath catches on her lips, drawing his gaze down once more. "Not many would do what you just did." An understatement, surely. _

_She shrugs once more, in an attempt to brush off what she's done. Her mouth works silently, shaping words that are incoherent. He almost laughs but he doesn't want to offend her. "Um... it was nothing," she finally manages to string something together. "People tend not to look up."_

_Fair enough, something he's going to have to keep in mind when escaping the templars again - something he doesn't doubt. He needs to leave, immediately. The rocks will only lead them in the wrong direction for so long before his phylactery turns them back around and for some reason, he finds within him the desire to protect this woman from them. The templars would show no kindness to her if they find out that she helped him. _

"_Still," he chuckles softly. "Allow me to thank you properly."_

_Thank her properly? Not even he knows what he has in mind, but the stiffening of her shoulders is too much to ignore. Caving to desire, he drops down over her, slanting his lips over hers, reveling in the feel of her heated mouth against his. The soft press of his fingers hold her to him and he slides them down her back, tracing the curve of her hips. When her mouth parts, the warm press of her tongue sparks a chill, his stomach heating with desire. _

"_Marian!" someone shouts, but he doesn't lift from her, he only pushes her harder into the tree. _

_He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, feeding at her mouth as though she's his last meal. The last thing he expects is for her lithe arms to climb the length of his arm, settling against his shoulder. Her taste is addictive, like freedom and bliss, and as he drinks from it, committing it to memory, his fingers slide along her hip, gently unlacing the purse ties. The weight of the coins falls into his hand and he breaks from the kiss._

_The sight of her hooded eyes and swollen lips thickens his groin. How he would love to finish this, but that voice rang through the trees, and he has a feeling they're searching for this beauty in his arms. _

"_Thank you," he murmurs again, only this time referring to the coin pressing into his palm. "Who knows, maybe we'll meet again," he chortles before dropping from the branch as he'd seen her do and vanishing into the thicket before the templars return. _

Marian_, if that's her name, he'll always remember it. Ignoring the slight guilt he feels about stealing her purse, he pushes harder through the trees, determined now to escape the templars before they return. But he can't block out the sound of her name, or the savory taste of her lips. He certainly _hopes_ they'll meet again. _

"Blondie!" a sharp voice pops before his face.

Anders' jerks, reality crashing around him. The trees in his mind vanish in a swirl of haze, wafting away into the air, and in their place rises the smirched architecture of Lowtown. A rotten stench pervades the air, forcing him to think as his hand presses into his brow.

_Hawke_.

Air rushes into his lungs and he drops his gaze, his face knotting at the sight of Merrill clutching tightly at Hawke. Her chin is slicked scarlet and her eyes closed, lashes fluttering wildly against her cheeks. Panic surges through his stomach and he drops down, sweeping her up with little struggle.

"Where?" Fenris demands in a low voice, tensed and ready for whatever orders Anders issues.

"Her uncle's," is all he says. His clinic is much too far and the hovel is just down the street. Fenris rushes forward, carving his way through the masses, opening a corridor for Anders to carry her through. Her weight is barely a strain as he follows closely behind the elf.

The door to Hawke's uncles is thrown open just as they round the corner, a large shadow pressing against the small wall.

"What's going on?" Alistair shouts over the roaring noise of the people screaming and crying.

"Move," Fenris snarls, guiding Alistair out of the way.

Anders whips past them and tears into the small shack, his gaze scouring every little corner. "There!" he jerks his chin toward the small table they'd surrounded during Satinalia.

Fenris lunges toward it and knocks everything to the floor in a single sweep. Anders ignores the sound of the clattering possessions, focusing only on Hawke. He gently lowers her down onto the flat table, his magic already plaiting over her bones. There's damage - _a lot _of damage, and he snatches eagerly at the air, struggling to calm the panic surging like whitewaters through him.

"Fenris," Anders mutters quietly, knowing the elf is listening. "I need to know what this is."

"Saar-qumek," the elf begins immediately, his pacing leading him in an erratic path around the small hovel. "A poisonous gas the qunari commissioned as a means of warfare."

He continues in a quiet voice and Anders struggles to listen, his magic still braiding through her body. He can feel it piecing her back together, fleshing out ruptured organs and shredded innards. He's a healer - he's done this for years, but _never_ did he think he would be putting back together someone he loves. With every surge of magic, he can _feel_ the damage, _taste_ the poison, _see_ the corruption thickening her blood.

"Delirium is a known side-effect, insanity as well. It's meant to force people-"

Anders tunes him out once more, scratching at the bottom of the barrel for more strength. The veil bends and twists above him with every bit he draws from it, his fingers silvered in the faint light of her uncle's hovel as he struggles to help her.

His hand is resting against her chest, feeling it rise beneath him when it suddenly stops. Anders' eyes jerk to her face, his lips thinning with displeasure at the sight of her greying before him.

"No!" he shouts, bowing over her and forcing more magic into her. Her heart has stopped, the void in her chest far too quiet and still.

"What's happening?" So many voices shouting, demanding to know what's wrong.

Anders' snatches his hand back from her and shakes it out, energy crackling between his fingers before he lowers it down on her chest once more and expels the sparks into her chest, forcing her tranquil heart to beat. He feels her muscles coiling and her back bows off the table, her head tipped back. But there's no gasping breath, no sudden intake, or fluttering eyes. She's so still, her skin paling.

"Hawke!" he shouts, shaking out his hand once more before forcing the bolts of energy into her once more. He needs to find her essence, that little threaded cord that ties to her to word and rebind it, affix it to something stable and permanent. He tears his eyes away from the cloud of death hovering over her, the shimmering blackness settling around her. The fade thins next to her, stealing her away - "No! Come on, Marian!"

"Anders!" Alistair shouts.

He ignites with viridian flames, his skin cracking with the breath of the fade. He _will not_ lose her and with that promise, he pours every last drop of his magic into her, flooding her until he feels her about to burst from it.

-.-

**-Hawke-**

She's drowning.

Though the world around her is as black as the wintry night, she knows she's drowning. The savage waves toss her body back and forth, slamming down over her head until the water fills her lungs. She kicks, pushing with all her strength for the surface, but something holds her down, some slippery tether looped around her waist, dragging her down into the murky depths where nightmares run rampant. She fights in vain, her arms and legs thrashing about in the sea. Her mouth falls open and she tries to scream, to cry for help, but only bubbles escape.

Fear maddens her soul and finally she screams, though it's nothing more than a muted sound. Her chest... pure agony lights it, stripping it until she's bare and nothing remains beyond the voidless pit where once a heart lay.

If she could only throw clean this fetter, but the moment her fingers slip under it, she sinks deeper and deeper, the darkness devouring her. It doesn't matter how hard she kicks and snatches at the water, she descends.

" - get him more -" a voice roars in her ear. "Oh Maker - Hawke! Hold on -"

The surface darkens and a small hand plunges into the water. Fingers coil in her overtunic and wrench her up, pulling her free of the sleek bond. She rushes to the surface, coughing and sputtering, her fingers pressing into her mouth as she chokes and spits out the water. Her body spasms, expelling the fluid in a viscous product that's mostly bile.

Hawke cracks her eyes open only to find herself kneeling in an abundance of sand. It covers her, coating her hands and knees. She tips her head back, searching for the one that pulled her from the briny depths, but a harsh glare of light blinds her. Squinting, her hand rises before her face to shade her eyes.

A shadow hovers before her, the wisps of her dress fluttering in the faint seabreeze. She's met by a woman with dark hair and warm eyes, and a familiar mouth that bows at the sight of Hawke crouched before her.

"Hello, sister," Bethany whispers, her small hands curving over Hawke's shoulders and guiding her to her feet.

"Bethany," Hawke chokes, staggering into her sister's chest. She's forgotten how beautiful her sister is, as fervant as the fiery moon. Her hair hangs low down her back, shimmering in the summer twilight, her eyes as bright as stars. "Where are we?"

Her sister's lip tugs into a gentle smile and she directs that shining gaze out to the point where ocean and land meet. From here, the sea looks so peaceful, but things are never as they seem. The remembered feel of the waves crashing over her stifles her chest and she sucks in a sharp breath, ridding the unbidden memory from her thoughts.

"This is the place beyond," her sister whispers.

"Beyond what?" Hawke's teeth grip her lower lip. She knows the answer, but she wants to hear her sister say it.

"Beyond life, beyond heartbeat and breath. Just... _beyond_," she murmurs in a sagely voice, her face curving back toward Hawke.

"Then where's father?"

"Oh," Bethany smiles. "He's about. Preparing things."

"What things?"

Her sister offers another peaceful smile but Hawke finds it anything but. "Bethany, I'm not ready for this-"

"And you think father and I were?" the faintest laugh tumbles from her lips. "I hadn't even been given the chance to experience life," she sighs. "Yes, I was free of the circle, but I was never _free_. Always hiding from templars, from the Chantry..."

"Bethany-"

"My point, sister, is we're never ready. Death can only be experienced by those who live. Perhaps that's why I linger here."

"Bethany, I'm sorry," Hawke whispers, her fingers running a gentle path down her sister's arms until she gathers her hands. It's quite a challenge to ignore how tepid they are. "You're here because I failed you-"

Her laugh is odd and one Hawke has never heard from her before. "Oh, my dear Marian. I am here because I was foolish and rushed an ogre. But enough of that. You asked where we are, this is the Crossroads. The place beyond... father awaits you at the Maker's side..." she pauses before turning to gather Hawke into her arms. "Hold on tight, sister-"

Hawke's breath suddenly catches, pure agony painting through her chest. White fire flares behind her closed eyes, lambent light blinding her vision. She pitches back from her sister, the ocean suddenly roaring in her ears. It's deafening and she can't _think_, can't _hear_ past the thunderous waves crashing over her.

An image rises behind her closed eyes: Anders stooped over her, his crackling hand thrusting into her chest again and again. Writhen lines scour his face, his topaz eyes burning with determination. He looks so tired, but so full of purpose. A face carved with fear and hope turns down on her.

"Hold on, Marian - No! _No!"_

The sight of him fades and panic swells in Hawke's chest until her heart gives a great heave and thumps once within the empty pit. She hadn't even noticed it wasn't beating. She whips around, seeking out Bethany once more, but her sister is slowly walking away from her, glancing only once over her shoulder to throw Hawke a calm smile.

_Where is she going?_

Hawke's muscles coil and lock in place and suddenly it isn't only panic she suffers under but fear as well. Is this normal? Is this how she's taken to the Maker's side? She can't move, and she must! She's trapped again and she whimpers, struggling in vain to shift, to twitch a finger, a hand, _anything_.

Her whimper grows into something more, until a sound more akin to a scream pours from her lips. The weight pressing her down vanishes, and the world around her shatters.

Hawke's eyes snap open to find herself staring up into the rafters of a ceiling as she chokes on her sudden intake of air. The sand thickens into a dirt floor, the water evaporates and erects into stone walls and thatched roofing. She's flat on her back, surrounded by familiar faces. But there's only one she wants to see. Her head lolls against the table, only to watch as Anders drops, his body wilting. Exhaustion greys his skin and slumps his shoulders.

"Marian..." her name spills from his lips as he sinks to the floor, his head bowing forward until his brow rests against her stomach, arms slack at his side. How she longs to go to him, but there's no strength in her limbs, not even in her littlest finger. She can't move, though it isn't the same as before. This is simply fatigue but they lock eyes, watching only the other as each catches their breath.

Large hands slide beneath her and Hawke gasps the moment she's hefted into the air. She knows from the massive chest it's Alistair and she sinks into him as he carries her toward her room. The door is nudged open by his hip and he slips within, stretching her out on her threadbare bed before skirting aside. Fenris and Varric stand behind him with a mage slung between them. They lower Anders slowly onto the bed next to her before backing away.

"We'll go see what can be done about the poison," Varric offers. "You two should rest." His thick hand falls onto Anders' shoulder and the two share in a glance that Hawke can't interpret until Varric flashes another glance at her. "Thank you for saving her life, Blondie."

The room is sealed into darkness when they shut the door behind them but Hawke doesn't panic. Not with the weight next to her on the bed. His arms gather her weakly, guiding her head into the nook between the shoulder and chest.

"Don't scare me like that," he whispers next to her, his lips burying in her hair. "I won't lose you, Marian."

She nods silently before tipping her head back to graze her lips against his jaw. She hasn't even returned her head to the small of his shoulder before sleep carries her away.

-.-

Something wriggles against her and Hawke shifts her weight, her fingers grazing over something soft and small. A roughened tongue flicks against her hand and her eyes flutter open. The kitten stumbles across the bed, his little paws tangling in the sheets as he hops about. A faint smile pulls up Hawke's lips and she stretches, wincing at the spasms coursing through her muscles. It's less now than it was and for that she's thankful.

"He likes you," a voice rises from next to the bed.

Hawke extends a hand, chuckling when the ball of blackness curls into her palm. She draws him closer, her finger running over his small head. "He likes everyone. Have you named him yet?"

Her head rolls over the pillow to find Anders seated in the same chair he's been perched in for two days. He'd recovered quickly, hers hadn't been as easy. But every day is an improvement.

"There are two names I've been playing with," he murmurs before lowering down onto the bed next to her, the mattress shifting under their shared weight.

Hawke immediately corrects her position, laying her head in his lap, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers immediately begin to the thread through her hair. "Let's hear them."

He hums gently under his breath, relaxing against the wall. She can feel him settling, finding a comfortable spot before he continues. "Whisker Rebellion, or the Meow Underground."

She stills against him before tipping her head back to regard him. Even Dread lifts his head from the floor, whuffing under his breath, his head whipping back and forth avidly, showing his dislike for both names. By the faint light of the sconce she can see his face and his lips have twisted into a teasing smile. "You're serious?" she asks.

"Why not? He needs a good, strong name," Anders tells her. "My last one I named Ser Pounce-a-Lot. It was a fitting name."

Hawke lifts the ball of fluff up to her face, brushing her lips over the crest of his head. "Don't worry sweetie, I won't call you those dreadful names."

"Well, what would you name him?" Anders chuckles, his fingers finding their way to the nape of her neck.

"I don't know, something cute and fluffy. Boots, or Cuddles."

His groan lifts through the room and Hawke tips her head back once more, her lips crooking at the sight of his pinched face. "Those are horrible names for a cat!" he laughs. "Now I see how you came up with Dread's name!"

Her mabari grunts under his breath before creeping across the floor on his stomach, dropping his massive head atop Anders' lap. His muddy eyes are all for the kitten though. For a moment, Hawke worries he might attempt to take a chunk out of the sweet ball of fur, but a single look from the kitten has Dread whining and pushing his nose against the cat's face.

Both Anders and Hawke chuckle as one at the sight of her dangerous war hound making friends with a creature a fraction of his size.

"How are you feeling?" Anders finally asks, his fingers warming as his magic pulses through her.

Hawke sighs and sinks into the sensations, finding pleasure behind the balmy healing magic. "Fine, really," she assures him. "Sleeping is still a bit difficult, I keep finding myself submerged in water, but it's different. Now it's just a dream."

"It was a dream before too, sweetheart," he whispers.

Hawke shook her head, the barest of motions. "You wouldn't say that if you were there. That was really Bethany, Anders. I could _feel_ it. That was the beyond."

His body stiffens beneath her, as it has every time they've spoken of this in the past two days. Anders doesn't like hearing how close she'd come to dying, not that Hawke enjoys discussing it, but she needs to tell someone. Her sister had come for her, to take her to the Maker's side.

"If you're feeling better," he impedes the discussion, rapidly changing the topic. "Tomorrow, do you think you'd feel up to a little adventure? It shouldn't be too taxing, just a little reconnaissance."

Her ears perk and she releases the kitten to push up from his lap. Truthfully, she feels _a lot_ better. Yes, there's still some cramping and pain, but it's nothing compared to the dreaded boredom she's been suffering under for two days. "Reconnaissance," she muses. "Do tell."

His mouth spreads into a grin as his hands guide her onto his lap, her legs straddling his. "I doubt you've noticed, running away in poisonous fogs and all," he growls playfully, his fingers tapping her nose in mock admonishment. "But there's been an increase in the number of Tranquils in the Gallows recently."

Hawke's brow arched toward the ceiling. "There has?"

He nods, sadness creeping into his amber eyes. "I've been keeping an eye out and every day there are new Tranquil, selling their bloody wares."

Her teeth set into her lower lip. "I take it this isn't normal or expected?"

"These are mages that have passed their Harrowing," he sighs, dropping his back against the wall. "Like Karl."

"But... I thought that was against Chantry law? I mean, I don't know for sure. Bethany was never part of the Circle and father refused to speak of it, but I think I remember my father telling me that."

"You're not wrong," Anders nods slowly, his eyes flashing open to fix her to the spot, straddling him, not that she has any problem with that. "The templars are using the Rite of Tranquility to silence any who speak against them. From what information I could gather, the "Healer of Darktown" is one of the top on their list."

Hawke's heart sputters in her chest and her fingers tighten in his coat. "No, no, that's not allowed. I _won't_-"

"It's alright, love," he murmurs, his hand cupping around the back of her neck to draw her forward. Their lips touch, the barest of a kiss, but it warms her all the way to her toes. "They won't get me, _I_ won't let them. Too many mages are afraid to feel, afraid to give power to the templars to hold above them. That notion frightened me as well, still does. But I can't fight for mage freedom and not experience it myself."

His eyes cloud, something Hawke is familiar with when he's having an internal conversation with Justice. When he finally comes back to her, his lips twist wryly and he continues.

"The templars can put me on whatever list they want, I will _not_ let them make me Tranquil. What I hold in my hands," he whispers, his fingers curving over her shoulders and down until they frame her waist, "is precious and I won't let _anyone_ take that away from me."

It it were any other man and woman, Hawke might have swooned at such words. But she can read between the lines. He may not have actually said the words, but Anders just proclaimed war against the templars. And she knows she's to blame for such a thing. Should he lose... her throat constricts with fear, and she has to force herself to swallow past the lump lodged in her throat. He won't lose. She won't let him.

"Regardless, there's a deliberate plan in the works, if my information is correct, to turn every last mage in Kirkwall within the next three years." His voice deepens, his skin cracking with the anger he feels from this. Hawke falls still against him, a little nervous at the thought of Justice showing up. But with a steadying breath, the lambent glow dims and it's still just Anders peering out at her. "There are groups in Kirkwall who willingly help those fleeing from the brutality of the Chantry. I've talked to a few on the inside. The plan is the work of a templar named Ser Alrik-"

Hawke turns to stone, pure fury coating heavily upon her tongue at the sound of that name. Heaving for breath, her fingers snatch into the sheets around them.

"Marian?" Anders suddenly demands, his weight shifting as his hands fall on her cheeks. But what ails her isn't physical. "Are you all right?"

"Continue," she growls, her eyes burning with righteous condemnation.

"Are you in pain?"

"Continue," she mutters again, forcibly extracting her fingers from the weathered sheets.

Anders eyes scour her face but finally he nods. "I've had a run-in with him myself. He's the one that did the ritual on Karl. Nasty piece of work, likes to make mages beg."

A memory floods behind Hawke's eyes - a templar peering down over her father, his lips moving, but she'd been too far away to hear the words. He hadn't been the one to run him through, but she'd found out later that the man hovering over her father is called Ser Alrik. He may not have struck the blow, but in her mind, they are all equally to blame.

"I've seen his work firsthand," Anders continues and Hawke nods once. So has she. "He's a sadist, cold-blooded as a lizard. He likes to experiment, find out what it takes to push them into the arms of demons."

Hawke trembles, her fingers shaking against his thighs and it doesn't go unnoticed. He winds their hands together, lifting her digits to his mouth.

"My hope," he whispers against them, "is that there are those willing to stand against this plan, should we find proof of its existence. I thought..." he drifts off, his eyes sweeping over her face once more, a knot twisting his brow. "I thought you might want to help me, but now I'm not so sure-"

"He was there," she whispers, her voice dark with vengeance. "I know who this Ser Alrik is. You've seen the results of his work, well I am what's left over. He wasn't the one to murder my father-" Anders' breath catches, his hands warming to the point of glowing as they run over her arms. "But he was there and that's good enough for me. Don't leave me in the dark with this, please," she begs. "This is my chance to finally..." her voice breaks and Anders nods, guiding her into his chest.

"We'll go tomorrow, we'll find the proof, and bring it into the light."

Hawke rests her head in the crook of her shoulder, her thoughts running rampant. She doesn't want to find _proof_, she wants to kill him. And should they meet him... all the better for her, and all the worse for him.

* * *

**_Whiskers Rebellion_ or _The Meow Underground_, cast your votes! The name with the most, that shall be the name of the putty tat xD**


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: So this chapter was supposed to end after "Dissent" was completed but the last portion just would not cooperate with me tonight - so it's been put back on the drawing board, which means the surprise I mentioned last chapter will be the beginning of the next :) I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter haha For some reason my fingers and brain were not working in sync tonight *sigh* Hopefully it turned out well, though. Let me know! _

_Thanks again to everyone! You guys all make me so happy with the attention and love you pay this story :D_

_Edit: You may notice some differences with Malcolm in this chap. After researching him I found not much is known about him, including the circle he is from. So I'm making him a history as this is AU :D hope you like!_

* * *

**Chapter 28**

Hawke

* * *

"Why are we doing this again?" a soft breath brushes against Hawke's ear.

She jumps, her foot coming down on the wood of the small boat to steady herself. When she turns, Isabela's face hovers next to hers, eyes like liquid brandy as she watches the waves intently. Hawke's hand immediately lifts to push the few rogue strands that dare to escape her braid away from her face. Always in the way, it seems. Maker, not two days ago, it'd somehow knotted around a clasp of her armor and had taken her mother a half hour to sort through! How she misses her shortened crop - the style she'd worn for years before coming to Kirkwall. It had been similar to her father's, with her own little flare. The long locks are nice, but constantly brushing it, winding it back, stuffing it beneath helmets, it's far too annoying.

"So, _are _you going to tell me what this is all about? Or do you mean for me to guess?" Isabela murmurs, glances out to the water.

Hawke lowers down onto the nearest bench, her eyes all for the gilded statues of chained slaves. Expressions of pain contort their faces, their mouths bowed open in silent screams that she can hear echoing through her head. Chains are held tight between master and slave - an apt representation of the Gallows. She knows they'd been built by the Tevinters as a way to break any newcomers to the city, but the templars hadn't wasted any time in claiming the statues for their own purposes - to show mages that they are not to be accepted in this world or the next. Her heart turns to stone in her chest and she shifts her eyes out toward the water instead.

"I just need you to distract the templars for me," Hawke informs her friend.

Alistair's face curves toward her, his eyes wide as he listens. Truth be told, the only reason she asked him to accompany her is because of his experience with the templars. He understands them, having almost become one. Perhaps he would be able to help. This is important to Anders and the last thing she wants is to fail. If it's true - if the templars really are forcing tranquility on those that have passed their Harrowing - it needs to be put to a stop.

A faint laugh spills from Isabela's lips. "Well, kitten, you certainly have no problem asking for the impossible. It's daylight, in case you haven't noticed. Every last templar is going to be in the Gallows Courtyard. And you want me to distract them all? Just how am I supposed to accomplish something like that?"

Hawke sighs and she twines her fingers around the stray strands once more, pulling them back behind her ear. "I don't know. I trust you'll think of something, though."

"And you'll be doing what?" Alistair finally asks.

"I need to get into Templar Hall," she says under her breath, so not to be overheard.

Alistair's benignant eyes darken with surprise. "You're insane," he laughs bitterly. "And you're going to get yourself hung from those rather nasty looking gibbets all throughout the yard."

Isabela, on the other hand, leans back against her seat, her mouth twisting with delight at this newest challenge.

"Possibly," Hawke murmurs with a nod, ignoring the steel band tightening around her chest.

"This has something to do with Anders, doesn't it?" Isabela questions. "Should have known that sour glare this morning had something to do with you."

Hawke's lips tug into a crooked smile. Anders certainly hadn't been impressed when she told him he was to stay in his clinic. There's no way she would willingly drag him into the Gallows. He'd never walk back out. After securing her promise that she would come back for him before dealing with Ser Alrik, he finally let her leave, though his scowl only grew darker with her every step she took away from him, Alistair locked to her side.

"So when do we get to hear the purpose behind this?"

Hawke ignores her prods and simply watches as they pass through the sheer cliffs. The boat draws up to the dock and they climb out, hovering just outside the gates. She drops a few coins into the ferryman's hands and waits for him to leave before turning back to the awaiting courtyard before them.

"Oh, fantastic," Isabela groans. "Do you see all the armor here? I'm going to get thrown into the brig again, I can just see it."

Hawke's lips flash into a grin. "Consider it payback."

Isabela's thinly sculpted brows lift. "Payback? For what?"

"For selling my favors on Funalis," Hawke chuckles before stepping forward and turning to her friend with her smallest dagger held hidden in her hand.

"What are you planning, Hawke?" Isabela demands in a dangerous voice, her dark brows snapping down over her eyes as she watches her friend close back in on her.

Hawke sets to work, dragging her blade across the center of Isabela's stomach, slicing through the tight garments, while leaving her skin pure. With a sly look in each direction to ensure no one is watching, her fingers dive into the woman's bust before Isabela can shove her away and she pulls, the material splitting with a loud rip.

"Andraste's flaming ass, woman!" Isabela gasps, her eyes dropping down to the now tattered ruins of her tunic.

"Trust me," Hawke murmurs as she grips each side of the slit and tears it higher, the cloth splitting with a groan.

"This was my favorite outfit!" Isabela exclaims.

Hawke's laugh is low and full of revenge. And at the sight of Alistair's eyes darting everywhere but them, his face flush with embarrassment, Hawke can't help but double over. He just looks _so _embarrassed, clearly unaccustomed to women flashing him. Her already scantily covered breast is practically falling out of the top, the dark rim of her nipple dangerously close to peeking out above the torn material.

As she straightens, she quickly yanks Isabela's bandana off and tussles her hair, fluffing it about her cheeks before stepping back. "Ready?" Hawke questions.

The woman's face is absolutely priceless, her blinking eyes taking in her ruined outfit. "What? Ready for what?"

Hawke's hand connects sharply with Isabela's cheek and the woman rears back, her hands rising in sudden defense. "Easy," Hawke cautions her, stepping back. Her eyes scour the pinkish glow of her friend's face and with a nod, she ties Isabela's bandana into her own hair and pats her cheeks down with a little dirt.

She leads them into the Gallows and the moment they cross into the courtyard, Hawke dashes forward, panting for air. "My friend needs help!" she suddenly shouts, her voice imitating a panicked woman, finger jabbing back at Isabela. "Some apostate accosted her out on the coast! Told her he was going to use her as a sacrifice for some goat deity!"

An entire army of eyes shift to Hawke and for a moment, she struggles beneath the weight of those stares, hoping she isn't recognized. Thankfully, Isabela doesn't let her down and she lets out this horrified moan before slumping to the ground, her arms wrapping around Alistair's legs as she clings piteously to him, sobbing wretchedly.

The thunderous boom of marching deafens Hawke and she cringes back the moment a contingent of templars sweeps down on Isabela, hovering over her, offering their assistance in any way possible.

"He made me drink this awful potion!" she cries, rubbing her good cheek against Alistair's thigh like a cat. "I feel all... itchy, and warm..." her fingers slide up the inside of his leg. Hawke's hand presses into her mouth, her eyes widening at the sight of Alistair squirming against the tussled pirate, his pleading eyes falling to her. "Should I take my clothes off? Do you think that'd help?"

Alistair yelps, his hands slapping hers away the higher they climb. Every templar in the proximity is staring, their mouths agape as they watch the scene unfold before them.

"I just barely managed to escape him, but I don't feel... satisfied," she drags out that last word, her eyes flashing with pent up desire. Falling back from Alistair, she sinks onto her haunches and rolls her eyes up to the crowd of templars staring silently down on her, her teeth setting into her plump lower lip. "Can you help me with that?"

More than one templar rises to the offer, their voices lifting in unison as they offer her safekeeping and protection from the _'big bad mage'_. Shaking her head, Hawke glances to Alistair once more, a furious heat chasing across his cheeks. The look on Isabela's face, her heaving breast practically offered to any that glance down on her, Hawke wouldn't be surprised if these templars gave up their commission right this moment, just to have her.

"What's happening here?" a deep voice rises from the side, the authority in his face distinct. Recognizing her cue, Hawke vanishes into the closest shadow and starts winding her way through the courtyard.

**-.-**

Templar Hall - as silent as the dead. It seems that her estimation that fewer templars would be present during the day is correct. Her eyes scour the sun-kissed walls and high windows as she removes Isabela's bandana and ties it into her belt.

She nudges the next door open with her hip and slips inside, not a soul present within the barracks. Keeping to the shadows, Hawke starts up the staircase, her fingers gliding along the smooth stone wall. It's peaceful here with only the soft lullaby of songbirds to guide her steps. At the next door, she pauses once more and partakes in a game she'd played the last time she and Isabela snuck into the Gallows.

Her knuckles rap against the door three times, and shifts her position so that she'll be hidden should it open. It doesn't. This is far easier than she'd expected, and arrested in that thought, she cracks it open and slides through the small slit, now entering an enclosed area. A corridor, with doors lining either side. One of them is Knight-Commander Meredith's, though she has no way of knowing exactly which it is.

They all look the same, dark-wooded doors with faded sconce light flooding from above. There's absolutely nothing to distinguish them. Sighing, Hawke's fingers curve around the first knob and she eases it open, her head poking through to find an abandoned room lined with scattered books and loose leaflets covering the thickly dusted floor. Curious, she slips through the small opening, the soot settling about her boots as she moves. It isn't only books but also a random assortment of weapons, all bordering the walls like forgotten keepsakes. She drifts aimlessly, her fingers falling upon the assortment of hilts and rounded tops of staffs. Cracked wood, peeling leather, chipped metal, it's like a boneyard for discarded armaments. She turns, about to continue with her mission, when a quick flash catches her attention. Her eyes lift to a grimed window, the light barely able to pierce through before banding over a singular bow reposed against the wall.

She steps through the dust, slowly approaching it, her fingers stretching the distance between her and the weapon until they fall on the smooth riser. Heartwood, she's sure of it. Caressing the smooth grains, she lifts it, her hand sealing around the grip. It fits, perfectly so. A beautiful weapon worthy of someone, surely. She lowers it down and shifts her weight, about to leave when her fingers catch against the bowstring, its melodic song calling her back toward it.

Her fingers curl into her palm, teeth working her lip. It wouldn't be the first time, or even the second, that she's stolen something. Surely, no one would notice its absence. The layer of filth is undisturbed beyond her small footprints - no one's entered this room in months. Doubtful they even have an idea of all that's here. With a sharp breath, she snatches it from against the wall and loops the string over her shoulder before turning and slipping back into the hall.

Voices echo down the hall, growing nearer with every heavy step. Hawke mutters a low Fereldan expletive and darts into the next room, her palm flat against the wood as she waits and listens for the templars to pass by.

"Well, it's not every day a woman dives into my study," a voice lifts from behind.

Her eyes flutter shut and she drops her brow forward against the door, a rush of breath falling past her lips. Drawing on her internal Isabela, she turns with a devastating smile curving her lips. At the sight of an elf seated at a long desk, clothed in mage robes, her grin slips. She'd assumed a templar - but not this.

"Not who you'd expected?" he muses, a dark brow darting to the ceiling.

"First Enchanter Orsino," Hawke murmurs, silently cussing herself out. Though it isn't quite as disastrous as if it'd been Meredith.

His other brow rises and he pushes slowly from his chair, his fingers trailing over the loose vellum. "Well, now - yours is a face I certainly never thought to see here again."

Hawke's eyes narrow, her fingers fetching behind her back for the doorknob. "You must have me confused with someone else, I'm not-"

"A mage, I know," he nods, his slow steps bringing them flush together.

His gaze sweeps over her entire face. Much like Fenris, the First Enchanter is the same height as her; a common elf trait it seems. A hand lifts from his side and hovers near her cheek, as though he means to touch her but can't close that final distance.

"Yes," he nods once. "I would know the blood of Malcolm Hawke anywhere."

Hawke's heart stops dead in her chest, her eyes growing large. "You knew-"

"Your father, yes. You must be Marian," he smiles gently before turning and making his way back toward the desk.

Without a thought, Hawke stumbles after him, her fingers twisting into his robes like a child clinging to their parent. "How could you know my father?" her voice rises with wonderment. "We lived in Ferelden our whole life!"

Orsino quirks a sly look over his shoulder. "Your life, perhaps, but not his."

Her fingers fall away from him. Hawke has never given much thought to her father's past. He'd always said his life began when he met her mother and there was little need to delve into things long since passed. "Was... was he a mage of the circle?"

"Aren't we all?" Orsino asks bitterly, a sigh finding its way to his lips afterward. "Once, yes, for a little while anyways."

Her face screws with confusion. "Then how-"

"A story for another time, I think," he impedes her. "Care to tell me why you've broken into my study?"

Her cheeks flush brightly and she casts her gaze down to the clean floor. At least here there are fewer books and leaflets, and the only weapon is the First Enchanter's staff hitched up against the wall.

"I didn't know this was yours. Those templars..." she jerks a thumb back over her shoulder.

"Ah," he nods. "Not even the non-magical are willing to come against them."

Her head jerks back up, righteous indignation streaking over her face like a shadow. "I'm _not _afraid of any templar."

"Yet you hide from them," he notes, his hands rising in appeasement when she fires up once more. "Merely an observation, child. It would seem you have your mother's temper."

Hawke's bites down on her lower lip, her fingers tightening into fists at her side. "I should go."

"Or you could tell me what it is you're searching for," he murmurs as he drops back down into his chair, his face tilted up to regard her.

Awfully astute for someone that hardly ever gets out into the real world. Not that the circle isn't the real world - there's likely more violence in the circle than anywhere else in Thedas. A whorehouse, maybe. Those could get a touch bit scary, or so Carver told her. But she doubts the First Enchanter has ever seen the inside of a -

She steers her thoughts back on path, quickly abandoning the image of her brother or Orsino in a brothel. "Who says I'm searching for anything?"

The corners of his mouth pull up. "Just out for a noonday walk then, is it? And it just _happened _to bring you into Templar Hall? You can trust me, you know. Your father did."

"Yes, well my father ended up dead, didn't he?" she snaps. "One might wonder _how _the templars knew to find him."

Orsino folds his hands together in his lap and bows his head in respect. "I wasn't aware Malcolm had passed on from this world. My condolences."

Hawke moves to leave, her hand palming the door when she pauses. Her father had always warned her against trusting the wrong sort, but how was she supposed to instinctively know who the wrong sort are?

"I'm looking for some information, and only a certain few know what it is, those that I trust with my life," she speaks to the door, deciding to test him.

"Ah, so I am to prove I am trustworthy then," he chuckles. "So be it. What might this information be?"

"There's talk of a 'Tranquil Solution'," she starts before turning to repose against the door, studying his reaction. The elf's brows snap down and he straightens in the chair. "Have you heard talk of this?"

"No," his voice is firm with a faint undertone of anger.

"What about the increase in Tranquil recently, have you noticed _that_?"

He smiles again, though this is quite different than the rest, now thin-lipped with his displeasure. "I suppose it was too much to hope that the outside world wouldn't take notice of it."

"You _wanted_ it to go unnoticed?" Hawke demands, her heel coming down on the stone floor as she steals a step toward him. "These are people that have passed their Harrowing!"

His brows dart toward the ceiling once more and he settles back in his chair, his hands steepling under his chin. "You have a fair bit of knowledge in this area it would seem."

"I grew up around mages," she says offhandedly, but her heart picks up speed. The last thing she wants is to give Anders away. These are the very people he is hiding from and the ones she would kill to keep him safe. "Look, I think it's part of some plan of a few certain templars, to turn every mage into a Tranquil within three years."

His green eyes darken, his dark brows knitting in irritation. "I think I should like to meet this informant of yours."

Her heart takes off, but she manages to slow it and meet the First Enchanter's gaze with her own firm stare. "I assure you, ser, the information was come by myself."

He waves a dismissive hand. "Not that you would tell me if it wasn't. Your father's daughter through and through."

Pride courses through her like a river. "Do you know a templar by the name of Ser Alrik?" It's a bit difficult to bite out his name, but she manages.

The First Enchanter's eyes snap up to hers, his face suddenly pale. "This is the templar behind this scheme?"

Hawke can taste his fear and she nods.

"Then this is indeed grave," he sighs as he pushes back to his feet. "We should speak with Knight-Commander Meredith."

Hawke presses her back flat against the door, sealing them within the room. "We can't just go to the Knight-Commander and tell her that one of her templars is rumored to be behind some nefarious plot. I need _proof_, First Enchanter."

He slants a strange stare at her. "Does that mean the same to you as it would your father."

Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. "Most likely."

"Do I stand a chance of convincing you to go through the appropriate channels with this?" he continued, turning to pace the thin length of the room.

"Unlikely," she responds, her lips quirking into an amused grin.

"Will this end with death?"

The image of Alrik curving over her father, his lips curling back as he spouted final words at the man that had bounced her on his knee and cured every injury with little more than a kiss rises unbidden. "Absolutely," she vows in a dark voice.

"And should I take matters into my own hands and seek her out -"

"Then you will have proven you can't be trusted," she informs him. "And I would hate to have to break into Templar Hall _again_ just to inform you of such a thing." There's a deeper threat here and they both hear it in her honeyed voice.

"Very well. If it is Ser Alrik you seek, you will likely find him in the dungeons. He and his lot tend to congregate there. The entrance-"

"I know it," she interjects, the fuzzy memory of the night she met Anders in the Gallows surfacing.

He stumbles, his head whipping toward her. "You _know_ of the dungeons? Maker's breath, child, what company do you keep?"

She holds her silence on that one, refusing to tell him it'd been nothing more than a drunken interlude. _Mystery_, she tells herself, _is never a bad thing._

A small beam of light floods into the room when Hawke cracks it open. Just as she intends to step out, Orsino's hand brushes against hers.

"As for the answers you desire about your father," he says in a quiet voice. "Seek out a templar by the name of Maurevar Carver. It seems only fair your father tell you his story himself."

Hawke half-turns, her dark brows drawing down.

"Until next time," he says before he pushes her gently from his study and the only sound is that of his door clicking softly shut behind her.

**-.-**

It's far easier to sneak out than in.

Hawke doesn't even grasp how much so until she realizes she's standing in the center of the Gallows Courtyard, surrounded by merchants, templars, mages, and Tranquil. Lost to Isabela's distraction, she hadn't noticed earlier just how numerous they are, and _Maker_ - looking around, it's no wonder Anders is concerned. Everywhere she looks, branded sunbeams have been burned into their flesh, the pointed rays sweeping down near their eyes.

"_There_ you are," a huffy voice says next to her ear.

Alistair - but no Isabela. Her brows lift as she leans around the thick tree trunk that is Alistair, searching for her.

"Knight-Captain Cullen opted to escort her home," he mutters. "Needed to get her out of here with the scene you two caused. You _do_ know that templars aren't... uh... well, once they take their vows, they... well - that is -"

"Yes, we all know templars abstain from sex," Hawke chuckles, impressed that the poor guy has enough blood left in his body for his cheeks to even burn. Surely, _that_ much blushing can't be healthy? "If you ask me, it's the root of the problem. I think the insanity comes from being denied something so natural."

Alistair's mouth falls open and he shoots a startled glance down on her. "So you think all templars are insane?"

She chuckles behind her hand. "From what I've seen? Can you blame me for thinking otherwise?"

"Do you think that of me?"

"Oh, absolutely," she teases, offering him a gentle wink. "You're the craziest of us all. Grey Warden, templar, prince, did I miss anything?"

A faint grumble rises from his lips.

"Need I remind you that you _aren't_ a templar?" she muses as she continues to count the Tranquil. "Your armor is clearly a griffon, not the Sword of Mercy."

Hawke's eyes sweep around the Courtyard but it's a very particular sight that suddenly catches her attention.

"Well, I think you're wrong, either way," Alistair continues to mumble. "You've let Anders have what you think is _so _natural, and he's far more touched than _any _templar I've ever - Hawke?"

Alistair's voice sounds so far away as her vision narrows in on a templar curved against the stone wall. Even from behind, his stance is quite menacing, steel gauntleted hands curling around a mage's arm and yanking her forward.

Hawke is moving before she even realizes it, her hands loosing the sinuous daggers that curl over her hips.

"Hawke!" Alistair hisses, his fingers snatching at her as he tries to draw her back. She shakes him off easily and quickens to a jog. She would know _this_ one anywhere, and with her every step her heart thumps desperately in her chest. The fading sunlight catches on his golden spun hair, and when he turns, those same icy eyes lift. Four years and the writhen cracks in his skin are all that's changed.

"Ser," the mage weeps as she pulls on her arm. "Please, I did nothing wrong!"

Hawke's fingers tighten in a fit of rage and savage strength. She can _hear_ the fear in the mage's voice. Had her father sounded the same when this man swept down and ran him through? The blade strapped to his back is the very same and Hawke sees red, her steps nearly faltering. Had he cleaned her father's blood from it immediately? Or is it part of the steel now?

This one's name she's never learned, not that it matters. She would know his face anywhere.

"I will be the one to decide that," the bastard snarls in her face.

Hawke doesn't waste a single breath.

"Hawke, _no_!" Alistair shouts.

The moment she strikes, the templars whips around, clearly drawn by the sound of Alistair's voice. Her dagger slices through the air - and misses.

"Well, well," he has the audacity to laugh as his massive hands clamp over her wrists and pin them to her sides.

She turns her face up toward him, the mindless desire to take his head burning in her eyes. Pure hate rises in her throat, and her fingers twitch with the need to bury a blade through his face.

"Hawke, _please!_" Alistair begs, half-turned against the wall to make sure they aren't seen.

"Hawke," the templar utters, the sound of him calling her name only arousing further blood lust.

An ire-filled brume clouds her mind, refusing her any clear thoughts. She twists in his grasp, struggling to free her arms, squirming like an animal caught in a snare.

He shoves her back into the wall, her head bouncing off the stone. The world tips on its side with her swaying vision, and blinking, she struggles to find her balance. _Nothing_ will ruin this moment. The fact that he stands at least a head taller than she, or that he's protected by heavy steel means little. Her wrath demands satisfaction.

His fingers slide away from her, and with a broken cry, she strikes out, her elbow connecting sharply with his nose.

"_Hawke!_" Alistair gasps. "Have you _lost your mind!" _

"Stay out of this," she growls around her breath as she lashes out once more, her fist slamming under his jaw.

He rears back, stumbling into the nearest wall. She pushes into him, her grip tightening on her blade once more when something large and heavy comes down across her cheek. Stars erupt behind her eyes and Hawke staggers back, nearly dropping to a knee before she catches herself.

Steel hands take her roughly by the shoulders, pushing her down just as an armored knee hammers into her chest. Her breath explodes from her lips and this time she does fall back, her eyes streaming as she struggles to suck in air.

She meets the wall once more and a heavy arm presses against her throat. Hawke scrabbles against him, her fingers grabbing at the steel. For some reason, it's his lips she stares at, twisted in that same grin he'd given her in Lothering, while he cuts off her airflow.

"Hawke," he repeats, his other hand threading through the long locks of her hair. "I know that name. You're the little girl that watched me kill her disgusting mage of a father all those years ago. Look at you, all grown up and quite the beautiful woman. Too bad daddy isn't here to see you."

There's a sharp breath - one that she knows isn't hers, she can't breath - as her head grows heavy. A streak of silver dives between them and suddenly, her lungs inflate. Hawke doubles over, her body shaking with a racking cough, fingers clutching at the stone wall for balance.

"_Enough_," Alistair hisses. "Hawke this _isn't_ the time or place! Do you realize if you'd killed him, every last templar here would see you hung from the Gallows?"

She drapes against the barrier, still panting, but her eyes are all for the monster hovering on the other side of Alistair. She tracks the sound of his steps, watching as he rounds Alistair and approaches her.

"Listen to the boy," he chuckles, his fingers dragging against her jaw where he'd struck her.

Hawke's stomach seizes with disgust and at the last moment, she spits at him, only realizing when it dots his face that she's bleeding. A dark storm breaks through those pale eyes, and he slowly wipes if off. For a moment, she's sure he intends to hit her again, but instead his fingers twist in her hair, dragging her head around until her eyes stare straight up into his.

"It's too bad you come from magic," he growls in her face. "Disgusting trash."

He releases her and stalks off. Alistair's hands are there, gripping her tightly as he struggles to hold her back from taking chase. Hawke's eyes narrow as she watches the templar march through the Gallows, his smug face caught in the faint glow of the sun.

Growling under her breath, Hawke tears out of Alistair's grip and wrenches around, her accusing stare burning through him. "What in the Maker was that about?!" she demands, the lash of her voice sharper than any whip. "I told you once not to get in my way -"

"_Marian_," Alistair whispers, his hands curving over her heaving shoulders. "Do you realize you've just _attacked_ a templar in the open? And he was _winning_! I couldn't - I couldn't let him... Even if you'd won, they would have strung from the scaffold in a heartbeat. The Chantry doesn't take well to the murder of their ranks." Shaking his head, he drops his own burning gaze down to the stone they stand upon. "I know I promised I'd help you and that I'd stay out of your way, but that was too hard to watch... I'm sorry."

Hawke turns away from him, staring across the courtyard once more. "That was him, Alistair. He's the one that struck my father down."

"I gathered that," he whispers.

"Next time, _do not_ get in my way."

**-.-**

Hawke slams open the door to Anders' clinic and storms in, one of her daggers still clutched achingly tight in her hand. She can hear Alistair calling her name, begging her to stop for a moment, but she doesn't. She can't seem to get rid of the feel of that templar, no matter how much salt water she'd splashed over her face throughout the ferry ride back. It's like a stain, one that she _needs _gone.

"Marian?" this voice is different and much calmer than Alistair's but she still doesn't acknowledge him - even though it's Anders.

Her feet plant her firmly before his mirror and her free hand gathers her braid off to the side.

"Hawke!" Alistair shouts, his weight knocking into the door.

Two shadows hover on either side of her, but she pays both little mind. Her eyes are all for the reflection staring back at her in the mirror. There's little life in that face, just a grim mask - a contradiction to all she feels whipping around inside. Orsino had said he could see her father in her. Had the templar seen the same thing? She has his eyes, she's been told that her whole life, but there's nothing else! A lonely chasm yawns beneath her feet and in her mind, Hawke straddles it, peering down into the darkness. It feels like she's lost him all over again; her hands stained with his blood, her cheeks slick with tears. Yet the mirror reflects little of this. It's all in her head.

She's always kept her hair short, mussed like her father's and for some reason that had always given her this connection to him, even though he's gone and won't ever come back. It's foolish to think such things, yet the poisoned thoughts of there, tearing her to pieces.

Snarling at herself, she lifts the dagger and brings it down, close to her head. Both men jump at her side, their hands rising to stop her. But they're too late.

Dangling from her fist is the long, messy braid she'd plaited earlier that morning.

Relief unwinds the tense knot of her shoulders and this time when she lifts her eyes to the mirror, she sees a little more of him. She rakes a hand through the once-again butchered tips, forcing the strands to stand on end.

"Marian..." Anders murmurs, his hands turning her away from the mirror and toward him, eyes pulled tight with worry. "What happened?"

She doesn't want to talk about it. Not now. Maybe later, maybe never; right now she just needs to do something. She doesn't want to sit and stew about how she lost her chance to avenge her father, how she let that man lay hands on her, how she let him _walk away_.

Lost to her thoughts, she flinches when Anders fingers smooth over her jaw. His eyes flick over her face and she knows from the pinch to his lips that he can see the developing bruise. Healing magic pools into his palm but Hawke pulls away and stalks back to the door.

"Come on," she tells him. "I know where Alrik is."

The bruise will serve as a reminder.

* * *

_I forgot to mention: Whiskers Rebellion so won the vote! So, thanks again to everyone who gave their input :D Such a cute name, I agree. Lemme know what you thought of this chap, too :)_


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Hey! I updated early! Hoo-Ra! Thanks again to everyone who's been reading! I know I say it every chapter, but man, you guys rock! So you deserve as many thanks as I can give haha. And guess what?! The surprise made it into this chap! WooHoo! I was worried for a bit there hahaha... So don't forget! Lemme know what you think, I am excited to hear everyone's thoughts on this :D_

* * *

**Chapter 29**

_Anders_

Anders can taste Hawke's agony.

It's like nothing else; bitter, scalding ichor dripping down his throat. Like a hot knife sliding effortlessly through his heart and _twisting_, shredding it into thin ribbons. He's never felt anything of the like, didn't understand what it meant for someone to watch the person they care for suffer. Something happened in the Gallows, obviously. But neither Alistair nor Hawke seem willing to talk about it.

Anders' eyes shift to the blighted templar stalking next to him. An acrid taste rises in his mouth, coating over his tongue. _He_ had been there when whatever happened went down - Alistair _knows_, but Anders doesn't and that is a bitter realization. And as much as he longs to know just _what_ it is causing her so much heartache, he would throw himself to the hangman's noose before asking _him_.

Hawke's steps are quick, slapping against the cracked stone as she leads them through the dungeons, her hand constantly whipping through her butchered hair. The motion lifts his lips in a doleful smile. How she knows where they are going, he has no idea. The last time they were down here, she'd been unmercifully drunk. He would miss the long locks, but the woman before him now, this is Hawke. As much her as that harried overtunic clinging to her or the twin daggers strapped to her waist. It doesn't matter if her hair hangs to the ground, or is shaved to the scalp; she will always be his Hawke.

Anders blinks, his eyes dropping to the path they march on. He's never felt the deep possession he does now. It braids over his bones, tying and binding her to him. Whether she feels the same or not, she's inside him.

His heart rushes forward, the beat erratic and wild as it tears through him. His hand claps over his chest, a full breath missed as he tries to calm it. But it won't be placated. Marian is _his_. _His_.

His to protect, his to care for, his to cherish... just - _his_.

He hadn't understood, but he does now. The thought of her in pain, of her suffering, it hurts _him_. But it's not himself he thinks of. It's her. He wants nothing more than to chase away the shadows lingering under her eyes, to soothe the voided ache he can _feel_ ebbing from her, to just... _make it better_.

His arm lifts and his fingers curl around the thin column of her arm, drawing her into him.

Hawke's wide eyes snap to his. "Anders, what -"

He silences her words with a soft brush of his lips. He rises from her, his mouth hovering over hers, poised in that final distance. Her eyes, blue as a lake, burn with madness. The snowy flecks within spark with rage and disquiet, burying the knife a little deeper in his chest. _This_ is what he wants to see; not because he enjoys her pain, but because he wants to heal it.

"I'll just... be somewhere else for a while," a disgruntled voice murmurs next to them, dim and far-away.

"Anders," she whispers. "Now isn't-"

He drops that final distance, his mouth sealing around hers and swallowing her words. Hawke stumbles, her fingers gripping at his arms for balance, but his hands slide around to the lower swell of her back, holding her flush against him. This kiss is different from all the rest. He's shown her passion, desire, playfulness, but the comfort has _always_ come from her.

He's professed he loves her, confessed how much she means to him, that it would kill him to lose her, but it's now that he actually understands the implications of these words. The truth of them linger over his head like a thundercloud. He's not sure what he would do if he ever lost her, he doesn't even want to _think_ about such a thing. The feel of her in his arms, her breath filling his mouth, this is what he wants - till the end of his days, whenever that might be.

His tongue laves over her lower lip, tracing the swell, before sliding inside. They meet in a tangle, but Anders keeps it slow and deep, showing her wordlessly that he's here for her. His arms wind tighter around her, until there's no space between them. Her fingers curl into his chest, the softest, sweetest moan he's ever heard rising from her throat. Desire thickens his groin, but he instead breaks from the kiss, dropping a final one over her adorable tip-tilted nose.

"It doesn't have to be now, if you don't want it to be," he acknowledges the question in her eyes. "But soon, you'll tell me just what it is that's eating away at you, yes?"

Unspoken thoughts flash over her countenance, and her teeth sets into her lower lip. Anders doesn't break their connection - he holds her gaze until finally she nods, her shoulders rounding. Tension leaks from them until just Marian stands before him, stripped bare.

"Whatever it is, we'll figure it out," he promises without knowing yet what happened. But it's not hard to piece together that whatever it was, it was severe, at least to her. Why else would she stalk into his clinic and cut off her hair. The pain in her face when she'd done it had nearly brought him to his knees.

A sigh spills from her lips and she slides her arms under his jacket, looping them around his waist. Her face presses into his chest and he simply holds her, his chin resting gently atop her head.

"I found him," she finally whispers, though Anders doesn't know who _him_ is. Nor does he ask. Instead, he shifts his arms, until he can run his fingers up and down her back, silently offering her the strength to say whatever it is. "The templar that killed my father."

He stiffens before he can stop himself. A haze fills his mind and with grit teeth, Anders forces Justice back. This is _not_ the time for the spirit to come to the surface. There are no templars here, no threats that need addressing. It's simply him and Marian. And she needs _him_, not the creature within. Her head shifts and she tips it back to regard him.

Swallowing, Anders nods. He's the one here, not the spirit. "In the Gallows?" he assumes, his hand rising to trace the blossoming bruise blooming over her jaw. It seems it hadn't been a friendly confrontation, not that he expects it would be. The man had stolen a child's father, made her into what she is now. Tea and cookies is the last thing that would come from such a reunion.

She nods and drops her head back down against the swell of his chest. "Anders -" she chokes out his name. "He beat me."

His palm curves over the bruise. Though the thought of any man touching her enrages him, and Justice as well oddly enough, he knows his anger isn't what she needs at this moment. He has to dig deep, but he finds calm as he speaks his next words. "I wouldn't necessarily say that, it's just a bruise -"

"No," she scoffs, her tongue clucking against her lips. "He _beat_ me. If Alistair hadn't been there..."

Ice fills Anders' veins, her implication clearing at the sound of the brute's name. Anders' lids close and he has to take a few steadying breaths before he finds his voice again. He isn't going to like this, and he can already sense Justice foaming at the mouth, but he has to know. "Tell me."

She hesitates, understandably so. Anyone that knows Anders knows that templars rob him of control, but for Marian... he settles his shoulders, clinging to the thin strands of discipline, the final reserves of his composure. Her story begins slow, starting with how she acquired the new bow he feels pressing into his arms, to the meeting with Orsino - which startles him as much as it had her - to seeing the templar standing across the courtyard. She tries to skirt over the fight, but Anders insists and he feels every blow as aptly as if he'd been there. His fingers curl over her cheek as she explains how he quickly got the upper hand. She blames her anger, but Anders' fear is greater than that. Templars are trained fighters. Hawke is as well, but many of these men are twice her size. They fight blood mages and abominations, what's a female rogue to them? He's being unfair and he knows it, but the fear makes it difficult to think. He can hear the despair in her voice - she's never lost a fight that wasn't darkspawn. And that's the source of her anger. He can hear it in the wavering words and searing tone. She'd been beaten, and not by anyone, by the man that had killed her father.

Anders' lids close as he gathers her tightly against him. For a brief moment, he feels thanks toward Alistair, for stepping in, though there's disgust there too. He'd let the fight start, and from the sounds of it, hadn't even bothered to defend her until the templar had her pinned. Afraid of the other templars - some Grey Warden. He knows he should be grateful that she's alive, that she's here in his arms, and Alistair _is_ the reason for that. But if he'd been there, that templar wouldn't have even gotten his hands on her. Anders might have been strung up from the gibbets, but it would have been worth it to kill the bastard that murdered her father.

Shock slips down his throat and even Justice startles. The realization that he would give his life for her - he's felt that before, but never with such clarity as he does now. She shouldn't have gone to the Gallows without him. He understands her point that a mage can't just walk freely about within the courtyard, especially one such as him - everything about him screams mage. But none of that matters.

She steps away from him and he sends a searching glance down to find dry cheeks and calm eyes. The corners of his mouth tug up; he should have known not to expect tears, and his pride for her surges forward. He sees determination in her face now, along with the faded anger and shock. She'll learn from this and carry that lesson forward.

A gentle flash of gold catches Anders' gaze and his eyes drop to the thin column of her neck. He hadn't noticed before now, but a thin silver chain hangs from her neck, looped through the earring he'd gifted her for Satinalia. He brushes his hand against it, his eyes locked with hers. The sight of it stutters his heart once more, and his breath catches as it skips a beat entirely. He'd never thought - even when giving it to her - that she'd wear it so blatantly around her neck, for the entire world to see that she is his. She's speaking to him, saying something that he can't hear over the deafening thumping of his heart, and it doesn't matter.

He chases after her still-moving mouth, this kiss much more passionate than the last. It feels like his magic has turned inward, the flames scorching up the walls of his body, igniting him in a blaze of fire that consumes his soul. His mind empties, the feel of her mouth shaping around his the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. His fingers grip against her side, tightening in her tunic to distract him from the mindless wish to pin her against the wall. He'd never thought the sight of his earring around her neck would have such a strong reaction, and it's only when Alistair's choking breath interrupts them that he breaks away from her, his hand pressed into the wall as he struggles to calm the flame-whipped storm within.

"Come on," she tells him in a breathless voice. "There's still someone down here that needs to be dealt with."

Her fingers fold through his and with a last smile, she starts leading them through the dungeons again, her nod signaling to Alistair that they're continuing. The earring had succeeded in distracting him for a moment, but at the sight of the blond templar following after them, Anders' bites his lip from saying the words on his mind. He needs to ignore that the man _let _her get hurt and focus on the fact that he _did_ save her life. That is what matters most.

Their voices are like a beacon, leading them through one darkened corridor into another. It's nothing like the Deep Roads, yet Anders can feel his shoulders tightening. Hawke appears immune, either too exhausted from her day to notice or still running on adrenaline. Next to him, Alistair looses his sword, the leather hilt groaning beneath his tight grip. Anders pauses, his gaze climbing the templar's impressive height, though he's only an inch or two above Anders.

"You going to be able to handle this, templar?" Anders demands in a honeyed voice, though he's certain the sarcasm is quite evident.

"Likely more so than you, abomination," Alistair snipes back.

Anders' fingers curl into tight balls, his muscles shivering with tension. One of these days, they'll get their chance to have it out with one another. And on that day, the templar won't know what hit him.

"Enough, you two," Hawke snaps, tossing them an irritated glance over her shoulder.

She draws her bow and nocks the first arrow, though the knapped tip is pointed to the ground. Her steps are slow and purposeful, her face pinched with worry as she quickly peeks around the next corner.

Her fist comes up, signaling them to stop. The voices of those they are searching for are loud now, clearly right in front of them. Anders tries not to focus on what is being said, but Justice does, and the moment a deep tone threatens a mage, he feels his skin crack and bleed blue light, the otherworldly sense consuming him and shunting him to the back of his consciousness.

Eyes are on him - one appraising, the other condemning. But Justice cares little. The templar does not understand what lives mages have been forced to live, what punishments they are forced to reap, what misgivings they are born... all for simply suffering the gift of the Maker.

The woman's gaze swings up to him, her eyes as clear as a Fade's day. He can see what Anders likes about her; such a pure heart, full of good intention. Had they met in the Fade, this is one he would offer his assistance to. The strength she wields is one that would call demons down upon her as well.

"Anders?"

"No," Justice informs her, his fingers rising to touch the bruise on her cheek. Anders tried keeping this from him - did not wish him to see the marks marring the flesh of his - _their _- Hawke; for what is Anders', is Justice's as well. A templar is the cause of the naked pain in her eyes, a templar like the one next to him.

Vengeance amasses at his feet, feeding him energy from the Veil, and only at the last moment does the templar beside him turn with wide eyes. Magic pours off Justice in waves, pulsing down his arm, and swelling over his fingers in viridian light. He recognizes this one, remembers the contempt and hatred he'd seen the last time Justice breathed this toxic air. He'd avowed the man would not see the light of day again, and he'd been forsworn. Not this time.

The templar gathers his energies about him, centering his talents, but Justice is unstoppable, and he will have his way.

A thin, warm hand falls on his arm. Shock snuffs out the light crawling over Justice's hand and he snaps his eyes down on the female. The concern sketched in her face is endearing, but it brushes over Justice.

"Save it for the _real _templars," she whispers, her head jerking back over her shoulder. Yes, he can sense them as well, and the mage prostrating herself before them.

"You will be careful," he orders the female before him; for Anders' sake, not his. "Anders will not forgive me if you are injured."

Her wide eyes lift to his, her lips parted. There is a brief moment that Justice wonders what it is Anders feels when he lays his mouth atop hers. His memories from Kristophe have provided an inclination, but Anders is careful to keep such things from him. Yet, he's watched, heard the sounds of pleasure that crawl from within, scented the arousal they suffer under, felt the startled leap of Anders' heart. Kristophe experienced these things, as well as a deep, satisfying emotion for his wife. Anders hovers on the edge of such sensations; even now, his worry for the female is distracting. As Anders can feel Justice's anger and rage, he can feel his plight for this woman. And Justice knows, should this Hawke be harmed here today, Anders will suffer greatly. He does not wish pain on his friend, so he will ensure she is protected. The templars will not lay a hand on her.

"Let's go," she finally nods, the dark wooded bow creaking under her grip. She suffers from anger; yes, he can taste it as bitterly as the air around them. He will see her anger fulfilled.

She whips around the corner, her bow drawn and plucked before Justice can follow. Her first notched shaft takes the nearest templar down, plumes protruding from his opened mouth.

Justice takes inventory of the brewing situation, noting how closely they surround the mage. He can feel them on her, sense how closely she is bound to them. She is _one _of them. This cannot be allowed. They will _never _touch another mage again. They will die! He will have every last templar for the abuses they have dealt upon them!

He lifts the staff, now aglow with the robust energy of the Fade, the shaft silvered and empowered. The threads Anders takes to wearing rise with power, floating around his body as he moves, cleaving his way through the pressing crowd. The magic that comes from him is innate, and he hardly gives pause to think of his attacks; they simply pour from his staff with little attention. A blaze of fire licks at their feet, lightning shattering rock above and raining down atop them, wind whips over them, and ice beats them down. Pools of blood spread over the moss-covered rock, but it doesn't slow him. Nor do the cries of either of the women. Justice answers to nobody.

Every one of them will feel the burn of justice, the scorch of vengeance, the blessedness of death. And it still will not be enough, not for the thousands of mages that have been stolen from their homes, raped, beaten, made Tranquil. Even those that are not mages have suffered.

The mage whimpers, begs, crawls, and calls names that Justice cannot hear through the haze of his retribution. She is tainted, one of _them_, and he will see her gone from this world. His staff lifts and he gathers his strength, the swollen heat of the fire spreading over the tips of his fingers.

Something sharp eases into his neck; it is of the mortal world though, and Vengeance is so much more than that. It will not be stopped, not until their bodies lie cold beneath his feet, their final breath snatched from their very lungs -

_Justice!_

Anders' Hawke - _his_ Hawke - bellows his name. The word echoes through the cavern, snapping off the stone until it fills his ears and clears his thoughts. His vision returns to him and he stares down into Hawke's face, his brow creasing at the sight of her terror. Her eyes snap away from his and she turns, her hands resting on the length of a thick arm. It is the arm that suddenly holds Justice's attention, for attached to the end is a silver-tipped broadsword, hovering firmly at his throat. He hadn't felt the splitting of his flesh, but he is aware of it now, and the blood dribbling down the length of his neck.

"Alistair, put down your sword!" Hawke urges. "He's back."

"He's _back?_" Alistair bellows, pushing the tip further into his throat.

Justice's face darkens, his magic crawling over his hands. He has longed for this moment - for the templar to tempt him. Injuring Anders is reason enough, and he will have the man's head, regardless of what Hawke says.

"How can you _defend_ him?" Alistair shouts, his own face a snarled knot. "He nearly killed her! She did _nothing_ wrong and he was about to strike her down! You saw it, I _know _you did!"

"Of course I saw it," she snaps, shoving his arm once more. The blade strafes down Justice's throat, dragging over his collarbone. A panicked gasp flies from Hawke's lips, and she turns, her fist suddenly striking Alistair's jaw.

The templar's head whips back, his balance unsteady. It is all Justice needs.

"No!" Hawke shouts the moment his magic looses from his hands.

He extends his hands, and from his fingers a wide arc of flame pours forth; the air crackling with blistering heat.

Alistair dives to the ground, raising his shield in time to block the fire. "Hawke, move!" he shouts, scrambling to his feet and taking her down by the knees before she can step between them. A cool calm spreads over Justice and his voided eyes track the templar as a beast does its prey.

Alistair bursts to his feet with a tight jaw, suddenly charging forward with his shield held before him. Justice turns in an attempt to step out of the way, only to be met once again with the sharpened edge of his blade, catching against the back of his hand. A bright flash robs him of sight and disrupts his magic, snuffing out the flames until only smoke remains, drawing toward the roof of the cavern. Anger gathers around him, and he feels it pouring from his eyes. Alistair thinks he's won, but he doesn't realize the warrior Justice is.

The templar straightens quickly, a crooked grin twisting his lips as he suddenly releases the energy Justice had felt building before they'd attacked the battalion. Too late, the ground sways beneath him and he staggers back, the power of the Veil snatched unwillingly from his hands. The sudden chill in his veins is insulting and Justice rears up, hissing under his breath at the assault. He's never been smote before, and though he has Anders memories to call upon, he can't, not with Anders' consciousness sliding over him and taking firm hold. Justice is ripped clear of this reality and thrown back to the darkness from where he watches, his anger at losing to the templar overwhelming.

Anders has only just straightened when something takes out his knees and in a tangle of limbs, they tumble to the ground, the Fade light flickering and dissolving with his next breath.

"By the void!" Anders' shouts, his hands grasping at Alistair's shoulders and tossing him unceremoniously away from him. "What are you _doing?_ Have you lost your mind?"

Alistair's head rolls against the stone, his eyes wide as he meets Anders' stare. "Have _I_ lost _my_ mind?" He rocks to his feet, and before Anders can gather his own, there's a thick blade pressed into his throat.

He stills, his gaze darting around the cavern. It's instinct when he tries to pull on the Veil, but his hands lay inert, his entire body as cold and empty as the stone he's sprawled across. The pounding in his head he'd associated with Justice's rage, and perhaps it is, but it's something else as well. His skin tingles, his bones heavy and aching; all symptoms of being smote.

"_Stop it!"_ Hawke's voice is shrill and dripping with rage.

Anders' eyes tighten and he attempts to draw on his memories, but all he sees is blackness, with the faint flickers of fire and the echoing cries of death. He struggles to his feet, determined to face him like a man - not like the chewed up remains he feels like. Blighted templar, had to _smite _him. He hates smites, it can takes a full day to feel fully complete again. And being severed from the Fade is not something he enjoys. It's too close to how he imagines the Tranquil feel.

Alistair's blade digs into his flesh, a flash of scarlet rage chasing over his face. Anders' fists curl and he's just about to resort to yet _another_ brawl with the templar when Hawke suddenly appears before them, like a phantom. He's spared a single moment to see the ire in her face before she turns and slams her foot into Alistair's wrist. The sword he holds expertly spins into the dirt and as he's turning to her, she slams her fist under his jaw. Her hands grasp his shoulders and she gives a final shove, toppling him down next to his sword.

She turns to Anders then, her face twisted like a rage demon. "_You_," she snaps at him, her long finger jabbing into his chest. "Stay." Her head whips around and she points at Alistair next. "And if you want to live another day, you'll stay right there too."

Anders doesn't doubt for a single moment that she will follow through on that promise. And neither does Alistair, it seems, from the shock fluttering over his features.

She turns then and stalks over to the mage still huddling in the mess of templar bodies, gathering her to her feet with another pinning glance, silently scolding them both.

Their corpses... his eyes drag over each and every one, his pulse quickening as memories surface. With a choking gasp, Anders staggers back, his fingers digging into his skull, as his heels kick into the rock. He'd almost killed her, almost killed...

"Akarra!" her name falls from his lips, the stone meeting his hands as he doubles over, gasping in pain at the memories Justice finally offers up. "Hawke," he chokes out. Had she not been here, had she not shouted Justice's name, he would have killed Akarra - his only true friend from the Circle -

_Akarra Amell._

He can't - he can't... he can't look at either of them... clinging to each other. He needs out - he needs air...

Anders' turns and bolts from the dungeons, the sound of his name chasing him through the cavernous corridors.


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Wow! That last chapter got the best response yet and I want to take the time to thank each and every one of you! You guys seriously make writing this story so much fun and keep the inspiration going to make you happy :D Please don't stop! I love hearing what you think! Anders sort of stole the show again! BAD ANDERS! I shall punish him later haha... but next chap is going to be mostly from Akarra's/Hawke's POV. _

_Anywho, enjoy! I hope you like it, this chapter definitely kicked my tushy a little :D Thanks to the wünderbar Eve Hawke for taking the time out of her night to beta this bad boy and make it shine like an Eluvian :D Seriously, you rock!_

* * *

**Chapter 30**

_Hawke_

It's only the taut fingers clinging to her arm that keeps Hawke from chasing after Anders.

She spins on her heel, about to jerk out of the mage's shivering grasp when a horrified look sketches across her face. Hawke pauses, the hand at her side balling tightly at the sight of the woman's narrowed eyes and tight jaw; judging. And because of it, Hawke's anger is sudden and intense, sweeping through her stomach in a blaze that she has to fight to tamp back. Who is this woman to judge _him_ - another apostate?

"That was Anders," the girl whispers, muddy brown eyes flicking between Hawke and the corridor.

The way she says his name, as though she _knows_ him. Hawke's chest hitches, her gaze lifting to the face of this woman. Anders had spoken a name before he'd run off, but Hawke hadn't a clue what he'd been referring to. Another mage, clearly, as the templars had been very interested in her; is that how they know each other?

"Akarra?" a different voice rises.

Hawke's chin jerks, and she rounds to find Alistair lifting himself from the ruddy ground, the back of his hand dragging against his mouth. Beaded blood stains his fingers, but that seems forgotten in the presence of this woman. A strange look sculpts his face; one of contemplation and confusion. Feeling much the same, Hawke casts another cursory glance toward this _Akarra_. She's taller - much, in fact - likely only an inch or so shorter than Anders. Hawke rolls her shoulders back and straightens as best she can, noting that the top of her head only comes up to the woman's chin. Thank goodness for Varric; at least she isn't the dwarf of the group.

Akarra turns at the sound of her name, her hair - as dark as Hawke's - settling around her shoulders. Hawke's fingers find her shorn tips, running through them again and again. A worm squirms in her stomach, and she finds herself suddenly wishing she hadn't butchered the long locks. This woman's hair is full and lustrous, the faint curls falling around her with grace. Hawke prefers her hair short, yet the tickle of jealousy raises doubts.

"Alistair?" his name falls from Akarra's lips, though there's a hint of indecisiveness.

He wipes at his mouth once more, before lowering his scarlet stained hand back down to his side. Hawke's teeth roll over her lower lip; she probably shouldn't have struck him so hard, but the sight of his sword buried into Anders' neck had elicited such panic. Worse had been seeing the actual blood dribble down the length of his throat, and knowing that if Alistair had wanted to, he could have driven that silver-tipped blade through. The unbidden image of Anders' head floating atop the flattened steel twists her stomach and her skin crawls. She should go to him, and is about to when Alistair's breath catches.

"_Andraste's flaming sword!_" Alistair gasps before sweeping forward, his hands falling over the lithe curve of Akarra's shoulders. A smile flashes over her countenance and her fingers slide over his.

"I take it you two... know each other?" Hawke muses, her chin slowly pulling over her shoulder to stare back toward the roads. Part of her keeps waiting for Anders to return, but the other half knows he won't. That same part that knows he needs her.

"We... met, in the Circle Tower, during the blight," Alistair mutters, and Hawke nods, not entirely interested in what he has to say.

She's about to take off, confident that Alistair can take care of the mage, help her where she needs to go, or something, when a faint moan drags her attention back down to the disturbed soils.

A side-long glance catches sight of a bald, bloodstained head, and she tenses, loosing her daggers, a blinding rage stealing her sight. She'd been certain Justice had slaughtered each and every one of them, but it seems not. But for it to be this one... it's like the Maker Himself wants to give her this.

Next to his squirming body is a pile of rubble fallen from the ceiling, slick with his blood. It seems wrong that her heart takes flight at the sight of _this_ templar mewling across the ground, but for so long she's dreamed of this moment. Since the day her father was taken from her.

Ser Alrik.

The rubble shifts under her feet as she straddles him, flipping him brusquely to his back. His face is torn, and blood seeps from his many wounds. Her lips curl at the sight, her fingers tightening around the leather hilt until it groans.

"You're not a mage," he wheezes, blood spilling over his lips.

Hawke sneers, the blade hovering delicately above the templar's neck. For so many nights, she's lain awake, dreaming of this moment, whispering his name to the shadows in a dark mantra - as though it'd been needed. It's the other's name - the one in the Gallows - that for years she's hungered for. Alrik's she'd come by so easily - the night she'd stolen into the Chantry. She'd heard it from the lips of a lay sister, her voice morose as she'd discussed the horrid events of the previous day with the revered mother. The brutal death of a mage had been nothing more than gossip to them; to Hawke, it'd been her life. She'd taken to the shadows, listening as they spoke of her family, sending them useless prayers on the breeze, voices thick with sympathy, but it hadn't been enough. A name, that's what she'd wanted - specifically the templar's that had run her father through. Alrik's came to their lips quickly, but Hawke had soon learned he wasn't The One. At the time, it had been enough to get her through the next moment, and the next. And it seems her time has finally come upon her, to live out those dreams that haunted her every night.

"What," she growls in a deep voice, her face inches from his, peering into the writhen face. The years haven't been good to him, his age showing in the faint lines carved next to his lips and eyes. "Don't remember me?"

Dark brows snap down over his icy eyes. How she wants to pluck them out with the tip of her dagger. Would the Maker forgive such a thing? These are the men that stole her father from her - she'd been a child! _Could_ the Maker look away? But more importantly, does she care if he doesn't? Surely, she's done enough good in the world to negate whatever sin this is.

His mask slips and suddenly his face pinches, lips curling over his teeth and tugging on the monstrosity he likely calls a mustache. "You must be that Fereldan brat whose father I killed all those years ago. Been chasing me your whole life? How marvelous."

"His _name_," Hawke hisses, placing her weight atop the dagger until it slides the slightest bit under his flesh. The one name she's always wanted and she could have it, right now.

"Maker!" Akarra gasps. "What are you _doing?_"

Hands fall on her shoulders, but Hawke shrugs them off with ease, her attention held unwaveringly by the templar beneath her. "Give me his _name!"_ she shrieks, pushing a little harder.

Not a hint of fear flashes behind his hardened eyes and she grunts her displeasure, slamming his head against the moss-covered stone.

"What is the _matter_ with you?" Akarra cries. "You can't seriously be doing this! Alistair -"

"Give me his name, and I let you walk," Hawke spits in his face, ignoring the panicked cries of Anders' friend. The thought of letting him slip through her fingers after all this time is staggering and her throat closes, but she will do anything for the other's name. The problem is the severe rage settling over her, and that the vengeance she craves is much too strong for her to simply let him leave. Staring down into those eyes that watched her mourn her father from a distance is too much. Her entire body tenses, waiting for the moment he either strikes back, or does as she commands.

"You don't have it in you," he mocks, the chords of his neck straining as he lifts his head to meet her stare. "Go ahead, girl."

Hawke's blade shifts, just a fraction, but enough to draw a thin line into his flesh. Sneering, she pulls back the blade and strikes him once, twice, and a third time. Blood spurts from his nose, his bottom lip slashed in half before she stops. Reddened prints blossom over his face, her knuckles outlined in his flesh. "One more time, templar. Give me his name."

Yet, the only sound that spills from his lips is a taunting laugh, his entire body shaking with it. Hawke's eyes narrow, her mouth thinning with ire. The steel bobs against his neck, her fingers trembling with her anger. She _wants_ that templar's name, but knows it won't happen; very few templars would willingly give up a comrade.

Her jaw sets, the muscles leaping as she decides her course of action. It's obvious the templar believes she doesn't have it in her. It means little to her. She _knows_ what she's capable of, as do the two standing behind her. Akarra has only just met her and she can see it as plain as the day. But the templar... whether he simply refuses to see his death, or _actually_ believes she's going to let him go, she doesn't know.

Lost to her rage, Hawke jerks the blade quickly, a red smile ribboning the flesh of his throat. His eyes bug, and the body beneath her begins to quiver. Blood runs over her hands, and seeps into her breeches. She watches, counting the seconds it takes for the light to dim from his eyes. And only when he's staring blindly above does she push back from him and rise, her knees shaking.

"By the Maker," Akarra whimpers. "_Who_ are you?"

Hawke pinches her brow, her skin sticky with his blood. It rubs off against the bridge of her nose, a single drop trailing down the length. "Marian Hawke," she whispers, placing emphasis on Hawke - for that's who she is. None of this Amell nonsense that her mother seems to be getting swept up into. The estate, the name, the court - she wants nothing to do with any of it.

"_Hawke_," Akarra breathes. "_You're_ a Hawke?"

Hawke's lashes fan her cheeks as she sucks in a steadying breath in an attempt to slow her racing heart. She can taste her pulse at the back of her throat, the anxiety coating her tongue. What she _doesn't_ need is another that knows her name, hoping to use it against her. Not tonight.

"Yes, I am. Now if you'll both excuse me-"

"My name is Akarra Amell," the mage whispers, her voice stopping Hawke dead.

"Amell," Alistair muses, his voice forced. "Hey! Do you think you two are related?"

Hawke winces, her head dropping into the palm of her hand. "Are _all_ templars so daft?" she mutters to herself. Surely, it must be a requirement of the Chantry? How best to keep their people on the small chains they grant them.

"He-ey," he whines. "It was just a... Oh, you two already connected that, didn't you?"

"Alistair," Hawke snaps, still furious with him for his treatment of Anders. It's lucky he can heal, to take care of the wound given to him. "Can you take Akarra to my uncle's? I'm sure my mother would like a chance to meet with her. I'll be there shortly. I need to check on Anders."

The tension in the small cave thickens, but Hawke refuses to turn and acknowledge what she's sure will be a dour look twisting Alistair's face. She doesn't want to hear about how he is an abomination, or how he's unworthy of her, or whatever other nonsensical madness he intends to spew at her. She just wants to check on him, needs to _know_ that he is alright, though she highly doubts he is.

"I would like to go with you," Akarra whispers. "He's my -"

"No," Hawke snaps, her back still to them. She refuses to look at any of the templars sprawled on the ground, especially the one she'd just given a new smile to. She doesn't enjoy the wrath brewing in her and is clinging desperately to the final strands of her fortitude. "Akarra, now isn't the best time," she says, softening her voice. "I'll bring him by later. You two can talk then. But right now..."

"Sure," the girl murmurs, though the disappointment is easy to hear.

"Come on," Alistair mumbles. "Let's get you out of here before more templars show up."

Hawke's eyes close once more, and she purposely sucks her breath in through her nose before releasing it from her mouth. That's just what she's needs - more templars showing up. Without a word uttered to them, she starts the path of the dungeons, hoping to make it to Anders before he does anything stupid.

* * *

_Anders_

There upon the floor, the bodies of the templars had lain; empty eyes staring up at the cavern ceiling, lips parted in silent cries. The taste of their blood is still warm upon his tongue, the bitter tang refusing to abate no matter how many times he rinses his mouth. The sound of his flagon slamming down onto the decrepit counter is lost to the haunting echo of Akarra's cries. With the relinquishment of his memories, the sight of her twisted face, her hands lifted to ward off the blow that she'd been sure was coming is all he sees.

He ran - what more could he do? He couldn't remain there; couldn't stand there surrounded by death. This is it. The thing he fears most has happened - he's become that which he has fought so devotedly against; an abomination. Every bitter shout, every hissed insult, they rise in the once-silent depths of his mind.

_What is my name?_

A simple question with a simple answer. Yet, it doesn't come to him. There's no conflicting response between either him or Justice; there's simply the chaos of his memories, and the remembered abuses. This terrifies him more than hearing Justice's name ring like a bell through his head.

The first time he'd woken after merging with the spirit, it had been much the same. Anders had been unable to think, to recall where he was and how he'd gotten there. Voices, so many voices, fire, so much fire, death... A willing host had to be better than the corpse Justice had been inhabiting, but in their time together, Anders has learned that it's the very last thing they should have done. Is it even Justice within him? Or has he corrupted him into a new being entirely; Vengeance?

_What is my name?_

_Justice._

_Anders._

His eyes squeeze shut, fingers pinching at his brow as the sounds rise once more, deafening him. From the very moment he and Justice merged, Anders had known that the Grey Wardens could no longer provide him with safe harbor - if what they offered could be called such a thing. Rolan, former templar, had taught him that lesson dearly. The Grey Warden's words, threatening Anders and Justice, both, had loosed their magic in a powerful fury. The sounds of the Warden's cries still taunt him, and he's quite sure it will be that way until his dying days.

Anders had left for Kirkwall, the only place he'd thought to seek sanctuary from the Wardens; there are no outposts here, after all. Instead, he'd found himself in a city with an impending war between mages and templars - the perfect locale to incite the revolution they seek. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he anticipated Hawke, though. He'd thought that part of his life had been over. Neither he nor Justice had any interest in women. He had his needs, but the cause had always superseded them.

But Hawke... she doesn't fear what he's become, she doesn't shy away from them and spit insults and curses. Or at least she hadn't before. Now, only the Maker knows how Hawke will respond. Whatever fantasy he's allowed himself - whatever ephemeral moments he's taunted himself with - he's sure the scene in the dungeons below has changed everything. She'd been there... watching as he nearly... nearly -

He chokes on his breath, his chest heaving as he sweeps over to his desk, his burning gaze staring down at the possessions lining the wall. What had he _thought_? That everything would remain the same? That he could go on living his life as though nothing has changed? He'd _merged_ with a spirit! A spirit of justice!

The sight of his journal fractures his silent rant; every thought he's ever had is scrawled within the vellum, bound in the worn flaps of leather, the spine creased and bowed. Every realization, every desire. From memory, he can recall the words:

_Andraste suffered at the hands of Magisters, thus she feared the influence of magic. But if the Maker blames magic for the Magisters actions in the Black City, why would he still gift us with it? _

For some reason the sight of these words only infuriate him further. Proof of his stupidity, of his downfall. He drops the tome down onto his flecked desk, and as the pages settle, an image of a startling pair of blue eyes suddenly stare up at him. His breath quickens, and his long fingers drop down onto the smooth parchment, tracing the darkened edges. _Hawke_.

Anders sways in the sudden grip of anger, his jaw grinding tightly, and with an enraged cry, his fingers latch onto the edge of his desk and heave it violently across the room. Books scatter across the floor, vellum flutter in the air, and quills clatter to the ground. His ire tastes like ashes in his mouth, and he watches as his carefully arranged parchments spill across the molded boards.

Muffled cries rise around him, drawing him back from his internal struggle to find his clinic still teeming with patients. All around him, people run about, racing toward the door, seeking safety from _him_. Choking on his rage, lightning suddenly sparks from the tips of his fingers, darting down into the dusty floor. His magic is uncontrollable; he can feel it coursing through him now. The templar's smite has left him unstable, his energy fractured and venting itself in any way it can find.

"Anders," the softest voice rises from the doorjamb, her fingers brushing over the frame as she steps through the hysterical masses.

_Anders_, he repeats in his head. _That is my name_. _I am not Justice, I am Anders. _Something stirs within him, a presence that fills his mind, and suddenly he can't remember the question he'd been struggling to answer.

His gaze slams into hers, and he takes note of the shadow of fear darkening her face. Can he blame her? All around him, people whip around, struggling to escape the deranged mage throwing furniture about. Mothers gather their children into their arms, fathers usher them out the swinging doors; men, women, elves, all fleeing from his very presence.

All except Hawke.

Terror ripples down his spine as she slowly makes her way toward him, her heel clacking loudly against the wooden beams. It's quickly become the only noise in the now silent and empty room. Anders holds onto that sound in his panicked struggle to slow his racing heart, searching deep within for a semblance of calm, some way to check the howling tempest of emotions. The very fact that she inspires such a need to control himself is frightening - how can he hope to protect her, otherwise? The last thing in this world he wants is to hurt her. That _cannot_ happen.

The scent of burned wood drifts between them, carried on the thin plumes of smoke lifting to the ceiling. He can feel strength pulsing through his veins, flowing of its own accord, unwilling to ebb away. And with her final step, he staggers back, his crackling fingers kneading into his head, tugging on his hair. He can't _think_ when she's here, he can't...

He's dangerous, unworthy, and he knows if she comforts him now, he'll lose all control.

"Anders," she whispers once more, those blighted _eyes _pinning him to the spot.

The acrid taste of fear lays thick upon his tongue, strangling his very breath. She's too close, _much _too close. It would take only a little, just the simplest slip of his magic, and he'd lose the only person that means so much to him. The horror that _he_ could be the one to bring harm upon her slips down his throat and shreds his stomach into thin ribbons.

She reaches for him, and only at the last moment does he manage to draw every last bit of will back into himself, the energy vanishing from the air with a _pop_. He will _not_ harm her.

Chilled fingers twine through his, lifting them to her mouth. It's the barest touch; gentle, butterfly kisses pressed against the tips, but it's enough to return a small fragment of sense to him.

"You're upset," she murmurs, her face soft in the dim light of the clinic. He searches the planes of her face, looking for the slightest hint of condemnation. But all he sees is warmth and kindness. "Talk to me."

He doesn't _want_ to talk. He wants to forget. He wants to slip away into the darkness and just... _be_. He doesn't want to be this _abomination_ anymore, regardless of the faint echo of pain he feels from Justice.

"Upset doesn't begin to cover it," he growls, jerking his hand free from hers as a fresh bout of anger takes hold. How _dare_ she look at him this way; so trusting, so affectionately. He _doesn't_ deserve it. "I nearly murdered Akarra!" he snaps, driving his words home, hoping to inspire the same rage that's devouring him from within. "Akarra! She... she was my _only_ friend in the circle, and I -" his voice breaks and he drops his head down into his palms.

"But you _didn't_," she appeals to him, her words as calm as the fingers that stroke the back of his hands.

Behind the veil, his face transforms into a sneer. He wrenches away from her touch and turns, staring down at the litter of effects scattered across his dusty floor. "It's all gone so wrong!" he shouts. "I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this! I never thought I'd have to worry for the lives of mages, for-"

"For...?" she questions softly.

A broken sound rips from his lips and he turns back to her, his face crumpling. "For _your_ life. We've become a monster, Justice and I, the same as any other abomination."

Justice's alarm is staggering, but Anders' despair is far worse. He pushes the spirit back, lacking the energy to deal with him at the moment.

"Anders," she croons, stepping up to him once more, her hands wrapping tightly around his. "You don't have to worry for my life. You lost control, but even then, you still heard me calling to you. You _stopped_."

How he longs to listen to her, to hear the words she preaches, but he can't look past the disgust. How can she not feel the same weight of his actions? That blighted templar had hovered behind her, his sword digging into his throat. As much as Anders hates to admit it, Alistair had been right in his actions. It should not have gotten so far. Justice should never have turned on Akarra!

"And you think that matters?" he demands, glaring darkly at her over his shoulder. "We could sit here and pretend I did nothing wrong. But what if you hadn't been there, Hawke?" Her eyes pinch, her nose scrunching in the way that he's learned comes from her dislike of the topic. _Finally_, he is reaching her. _Finally_, she is beginning to see him for the monster he is. He'd warned her in the Deep Roads that he would hurt her; she hadn't believed him. Well here is her proof. "I am dangerous... unstable... everything the templars say about us."

"I don't believe that," she says, her words clear and concise, but her tone is lacking the reverence he knows she's capable of.

"How can I fight for the freedom of mages when I am everything the Chantry loathes? I am the proof that mages _cannot_ be free!" he shouts, his magic gathering at his fingertips once more.

"You can do this, Anders," she whispers. "Mages are dangerous, that's why this has been so difficult. But I know you can rise above that. You can show them that mages _can_ control their powers. You can be the symbol that you so desire, you just need to maintain control."

Scoffing, he spins back to her and sweeps across the floor, his fingers curving tightly around her arms, yanking her close. "Do I _look_ like someone who can control himself?"

A flicker of hurt flashes over her face, and with a snarl worthy of Fenris, he releases her before stalking back to his possessions. Energy scours through him, fed by the anger filling his veins. His gaze falls on each sheet of vellum, and one by one, the parchments before him burst into flame, the paper furling inward from the heat.

"Anders!" she cries, her boots echoing against the wooden planks as she throws herself between him and his manifesto, the only item that remains pure.

"Leave me, Hawke," he growls, his deadened gaze falling on her. He needs her gone. He needs to vent, and he can't do that with her here. The thought of harming her chills his blood, and it's something he simply won't allow to happen. But to loose his anger, she _must_ be gone from this place.

"No," she insists. "I can help-"

"I don't want your help!" he snarls, fingers curling inwards. "Get out!"

"Anders-" she tries again, her face crumpling with pain.

"Now!" he bellows in a deafening voice, his throat burning. "Get _out_!"

Her face hardens, her teeth rolling over her lower lip as she stares him down like a defiant bronto. "No." A simple word, but the strength it carries is staggering.

Anders' eyes drop to her, his fingers trembling ever so slightly at his sides. "Marian," he whispers, so close to begging her to leave.

Silent contemplation flickers across her countenance and before he can utter another word, she darts forward, her hands framing his face. "I'm not going anywhere, Anders," she whispers to him, her mouth suddenly slanting over his.

The soft press of her lips is staggering and a rush of feeling swells within him. His eyes close, and he can't seem to stop his heart from surging forward. He sucks in a choking breath, his hands immediately flying to her hips, steadying himself against her. A tangle of emotion knots in his stomach and he wrenches back from her, holding her at arm's length. He can't - his fingers warm with his magic, and he feels it slipping from between his lips with every breath he takes.

"Marian," he says in a ragged voice.

"Anders, I _know_ you can do this," she tells him, her crystal eyes burning into his.

"I can't," he sighs, his shoulders rounding in defeat. "I can't be this symbol. I'm not... I'm not right."

"Is _anyone_ right for this?" she asks softly. "Revolutions aren't easily won. It takes strength, commitment, power. And no matter what happens, I will be here for you."

His mouth crooks at the corners and he drops forward, laying his brow against hers. "Be careful what you promise, love," he murmurs in a desolate voice.

"I like promises. My favorite ones involve chocolate and strawberries, just in case you were wondering," Hawke says, her fingers curling over his cheek.

An unexpected chuckle falls from his lips - weary and ragged around the edges, but there, nonetheless. His arms curl around her waist and he draws her closer, her mouth tugging into that same smile that stole his breath the very first time he saw it. "That's good to know," he snickers. "Seeing as I still owe you breakfast in bed."

"That you do," she winks. "I'm serious, though, Anders. I believe in you. _We _can do this, together," she offers, nodding as her thumb runs over the length of his lower lip. "Yes?"

He shudders against her, his eyes closing. Slowly, he nods, every last drop of anger and fear vanishing in the wake of Hawke's strength. She has so much, and he so little. Yet, she offers her own without even the slightest hesitation.

"Together," she repeats, her mouth brushing against his once more.


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: So this chapter ends quite differently than the game, but I won't spoil it here :) So, the usual thanks to everyone, your reviews are the light of my day :D I love each of them, and you guys too! Enjoy!_

_Oh! Uhm, MA Warning... You've... well, you've been warned haha. _

* * *

**Chapter 31**

_Hawke_

It's a comfortable silence that settles between them.

Hawke's mouth tugs into a smile and her gaze drops to their twined hands. She can't recall a time where they've simply walked through Lowtown, her hand in his, their feet soundless on the cobbled roads. The smirched landscape of the city breezes by and Hawke's eyes settle on the thatch roofs and stone walls. Quite different from Hightown, with its marble columns and flagstone pathways.

She's watching the blushing sky as the sun dips below the city's horizon, when Anders pulls on her hand, yanking her around a sharp corner. Hawke sucks in a sharp breath and pulls from his grip, reaching for her bow. He must have heard something she hadn't, or seen something... either way, she's ready.

Instead, a searing hot mouth falls on hers, and she stumbles back into the wall, her empty hands prone against his chest. Her fingers retract from the heat coming off beneath his shirt. Grey Warden stamina, she knows this; Anders always burns hotter than normal. But it still manages to render her speechless.

"Anders-"

"I didn't get a chance to thank you," he murmurs, his lips sliding down to the hollow of her throat. "For calming me down, back there."

Hawke forces herself to swallow, her one hand immediately dropping to the thick belt tied around her hips. Thankfully, her coin purse is still there, looped around the leather.

He pushes back from her, his lips curling into a mischievous smile, eyes a smoldering liquid topaz. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Never," she promises, her own wicked grin lifting the corners of her mouth.

"Good thing I have something else in mind then." A manly chuckle rises between them, and before Hawke can question him, his hands fall to her thin leggings, pulling loose the ties.

Her breath is sharp and without a thought, her palms slap against his chest, knocking him back into the alley's shadows. "What are you _doing_?" she hisses.

Like a distant star shining in the darkness, Anders pushes off the wall, his laugh rousing the hairs on the back of her neck. "Come on, Queen Rogue," he teases, his fingers brushing over her cheek. "We're in the shadows, you know how to use them to your advantage. So let's use them."

Her eyes widen, her mouth gaping. "You want to - here?"

His fingers graze down her length, and magically, the ties to her paints fall open. "Here, there, everywhere."

Hawke glances back over her shoulder, her gaze settling on the barrier between shadow and light. In theory, she certainly knows how to keep them concealed... but it's an alleyway... what would her father think?

Warm fingers hook under her chin and drag her gaze back. "Somewhere, someday, someone will tell our story. We should make it a good one, yes?" he winks, his mouth claiming hers once more.

Hawke's laugh spills into his mouth and only at the last moment does she decide - to the void with it. She's been sneaking through the shadows her entire life. If she doesn't want to be seen, she won't. The rogue in her is bursting, her heart fluttering at the thought, the excitement barely containable. Her trembling fingers lower to his breeches, yanking on his own ties.

"Wait - you actually want to?" he chuckles breathlessly, the moment she pops his pants open. "I wasn't serious, love." With an arched brow, she lifts her gaze to his. "Well, not entirely," he amends with a playful shrug.

She stretches up, stealing his mouth in a fervent kiss as her hand slips into the thin folds and frees him, arranging the fabrics to keep them out of the way.

"_Andraste's knickerweasals!_" he gulps.

Hawke's lower lip slides between her teeth, and she peers up at him from beneath her lashes. "This is what you want, isn't it, Anders?" she questions him in a heated voice.

She unknots her ties, arranging her own leggings so they aren't in the way. Even in the shadows, Anders' stricken face is visible, the white of his eyes shining in the darkness.

"Don't you want me?" she murmurs, watching him coyly as she backs toward the wall. He stumbles after her, his fingers snatching at her hips and yanking her against him. "So take me."

His breath comes in a shudder and she's suddenly lifted up against the wall, her knees pressing into his hips to keep her balance. Anders' mouth latches onto hers, his sleek tongue sliding into the warm depth. She can feel the rounded tip of him pushing against her, and her hand slides between them, positioning him.

Anders tears free of their kiss, his mouth moving soundlessly as he attempts to muster up enough air to speak. With a naughty twist of her lips, she slides atop him, spearing herself on his length. He staggers, his free hand catching their balance against the wall.

"Oh sweet baby Andraste," the words tumble from him to the beat of Hawke's pace.

Her arms slip around his neck and she lifts herself before sliding effortlessly down his shaft, enjoying the sound of his stuttered breaths. His eyes are a little wild when they flick up to her, specks of the fade sparking within.

Grinning, Hawke bends over him and nips at his ear, setting a quickened pace, pumping atop him as fast as she can. His mouth finds hers once more; a sharper assault, quickened by passion. He feeds at her, his kisses bruising as he devours her, hands deepening into her sides, holding her tightly against his chest.

"What's - the matter, Anders," she croons between her snatched breaths. "Too - much for you?"

He buries his face into her shoulder, his words muffled by her tunic. She doesn't need to hear what he said. He presses her firmly against the wall, his hands rounding her rear, balancing her. He takes control then, thrusting into her with such speed, she feels drunk with pleasure. She throws her head back against the wall, unable to think beyond the feel of him sliding inside her.

She doesn't realize the noises she's making until one of his hands leaves her rear and slides over her mouth, muffling her impassioned cries. A thought penetrates the cloud of rapture and she parts her lips, taking his finger into her mouth and sucking the length.

Anders' breath catches and his pace stutters, his infused eyes darting up to hers once more.

"Hawke," he chokes out, some untold emotion flickering over his face when she releases his gleaming finger and moves to the next. Her tongue presses against it, wrapping around as she slicks it wet.

His jaw sets, and his pace quickens. For a moment, she fears they'll be heard, but the delicious torment spreads through her stomach, heating her body to a fever, and she suddenly doesn't care. Anders draws his fingers out and chases after her mouth with his own, his tongue swirling within to the pace of his hips.

The sweet pleasure grows, her muscles straining as it builds higher and higher. Anders tears free of their kiss, and angles his thrusts, filling her to the point where she feels like she's about to shatter around him. Hawke tips her head back against the wall once more, biting on her lip to keep from crying out. _Almost there_. It's pure torture, waiting for that final moment when she's pushed over the edge.

"Anders," she cries out, her voice thick with need.

Her back is as taut as her bowstring, her knees digging into his hips as she begs silently for the release hovering over her. He pumps into her again and it's all it takes.

Hawke shivers and breaks into tiny pieces.

Her eyes slam shut as pure ecstasy scours through her, her world lighting up in a portrait of colors she's never seen before. Distantly, she's aware of Anders' low cry and the feel of him thickening within her. He pours into her, his hips jutting once, twice more before he falls still, his brow resting against her chest.

She can feel him panting against her, his fingers kneading into her rear as he struggles to recompose himself. Hawke hovers on the final thread of pleasure, her mouth tugging into a blessed smile. To hear him so undone, to feel him lose himself within her, there's no greater pleasure, and her fingers thread through his hair as she basks in it.

Slowly, he draws out of her and helps her to the ground, steadying her with his own shaking hands.

"Maker, but I love you," he chuckles weakly, the rogue hairs that have managed to pull free of his tie brushing over her cheek.

Hawke's lips pull into a contented smile. She reaches for her leggings, but Anders' hands are there first, rearranging them and tying them gently for her. His mouth finds hers once more, the kiss slower but just as ardent. She sinks into his chest, her body humming from the aftermath.

"We really should get to my uncle's," she whispers against his lips.

He nods, his hooded eyes slitting to peer at her. "Wicked little rogue, you are."

* * *

Hawke nudges the aged oak door open with her hip and slides within, her chin curving back over her shoulder to flash a grin at Anders. His softly muted eyes practically sing of his bliss and her heart surges forward at the sight. The thought that his happiness comes from her spreads heat through her stomach. If it weren't for her uncle's hovel, she might have dared another go in the shadows.

"Ah, there you are," her uncle's gravelly tone jerks her attention back around, heat scouring over her cheeks. "There's a letter for you, on the desk," he tells her, the annoyance in his voice unmasked. "And the next time you find more relatives, send them somewhere else. I am not a boarding home for refugees."

Hawke straightens, meeting her uncle's gaze with an expressionless one of her own and holding it until he drops his eyes. "Thank you," is all she says before glancing at the thickly sealed envelope abandoned atop his small table.

Elegant writing spires the front flaps and the seal of Starkhaven catches her eye. Sebastian, he must have found out some information about his family's assassination. Pausing by the table, she pulls off her overtunic and rests it over the table, her fingers loosening her jerkins snaps before reaching for the letter and pulling open the seal. Lavish vellum is drawn out and her eyes immediately fall to the ornate flourish of her name, marked upon the parchment in swirls. She quickly glances over the information, committing to memory the name Harimann.

_Harimann_ - she knows that name. Meeran had given it to her months before she'd left for the Deep Roads, but she'd refused the contract, hearing that he'd given aid to Ferelden refugees. Her throat closes in horror - his family is the one responsible for the assassination of the Vaels.

She turns to Anders, about it point it out to him, when soft voices rise from the kitchen. Alistair and Akarra must be here, but it's the thunderous gallop of Dread that rouses a full laugh from her. Since Whiskers joined the fray, it's been near impossible to encourage her hound to leave the hovel - so content with watching and playing with the kitten.

"Whoa, Dread!" she pleads, her hands held out before her at the sight of her looming mabari loping clear across the room with no intention of slowing. With a flopping tongue, raining spittle, and bouncing ears, he barrels toward them, those warm eyes trained on her and her alone. His nails skitter against the wooden beams, his lower jaw loosened in a doggy grin.

Anders' laughter is drowned out by her hound's excited _whuffs_, and at the last moment, Hawke drops low, hoping to slow him. Her eyes widen and just as she moves to dodge the impending collision, his massive weight crashes into her and in a tangle of limbs, they spill to the ground. A hot tongue paints up the side of her cheek, his lousy breath curling in her nose.

Her hands press into the solid muscle of his chest, pushing with all her strength, but the beast doesn't even budge.

"Off, you monster," Hawke grunts, shoving at him.

His foot slams down in her gut and she sucks in a sharp breath, groaning in pain. Her legs curl into her stomach and she rolls over, feeding him overly large eyes, pretending to mewl in pain as she rocks herself back and forth.

A wet nose smears over her cheek, his quiet whines punctuated by his quick huffs, searching for the source of her pain. Only when his muzzle drops to her neck does she lash out and cup his face, dragging him in for a spry kiss across between his eyes.

He gave the smallest little yip before flopping down onto his back, expecting the customary belly rub which Hawke gives willingly, grinning up at Anders from her crouch.

"The two of you," he chuckles, his hair spilling around his shoulders as he shakes his head.

Likely following the echoing bay of Dread's howl and the soft undertones of Anders' voice, a small lump wobbles out from her bedroom doorjamb. Anders leans his staff against the wall before quickly crossing the room, and dropping to his knees before the kitten, tucking him in his arms, and snuggling his little furry face.

"Who's the cutest kitty in the world," he croons, his fingers settling behind his ear and scratching until the faintest meow spills from the kitten's lips. Not a splash of color stains the fur - it's one of the reasons Hawke had fallen for him. The ball of fur is midnight black, like her, with sharp verdant eyes that remind her of Fenris.

A laugh bubbles from Hawke's lips at the sight of Whiskers - or Whiskers Rebellion as Anders chose to name him, though Hawke would never call him that - batting at those same loose hairs that had brushed her cheek not minutes ago.

Such an adorable sight, one that steals her breath. Pure joy transforms his face into something soft and genteel. Hawke can hardly turn away from him. Pushing off the wall, she approaches them and sinks to her knees, her fingers reaching out to join Anders'. And when Dread creeps beside her, his head resting on her lap, she laughs and cups his face, offering the same level of devotion.

"Some things never change," a soft voice rises from the jamb of the kitchen.

Hawke's eyes lift, her heart slowing at the sight of Akarra. The mage appears to have made herself at home, her hood and cloak hanging from her mother's rack. She wears the typical circle robes, driving the point home what she is; another apostate. And not just any apostate, but one that grew up with Anders. She shouldn't let that bother her, especially after all that has transpired between Hawke and Anders, but there's something about this woman that sets Hawke's teeth on edge. What is she to Anders? Is she one of the many lovers he's mentioned in passing? And why does it matter?

Anders' eyes lift, his face creased with concern. "Akarra," he murmurs, pushing to his feet with Whiskers still bundled in his arms. "Forgive me. I didn't - I would never -"

For a moment, the mage's face transforms into something breathtakingly gorgeous, a form of anger that Hawke has never worn well. Somehow, when consumed by rage, she simply looks dangerous. But Akarra... her anger is something else entirely. Her deep brown eyes flare to life, infused with the power of the fade, and the faint light of it brushes over her hands. Her pouty lips may have thinned yet the fine line only draws Hawke's gaze to her elegantly straight nose.

Hawke darts to her feet, quicker than Dread, about to step between them when the power vanishes with a sharp pop that pains her ears.

"It's all right," Akarra finally sighs. "It was a bad situation all around." Those dark eyes slam into hers and Hawke straightens once more, thumbing the smooth hilt of her blades. There's something about this woman she doesn't like, though until she knows more, she'll keep it to herself. "At least _you_ couldn't control yourself. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for all."

Hawke bristles, her back setting up at the sound of disgust lacing the woman's voice.

"Oh, darling!" her mother's voice rends the awkward tension spiraling out of control. Even Anders glances back at Hawke, his eyes narrowed with concern. "Thank goodness you're home! I have wonderful news that I've been waiting on you to share!"

Hawke wipes her face clean of her baleful stare and turns to her mother, opening her arms to embrace her. "And what wonderful news might that be?"

Leandra stumbles to a stop. "Maker's breath, you're _covered _in blood."

Hawke's heart startles. She is? In all the excitement, she hasn't given any thought to her appearance. With a quick glance at Anders, she steps toward the small mirror in the washing room, her reflection bringing her up short. A smear of blood stains the bridge of her nose, and tiny dots fleck her cheeks. Her eyes follow the woman staring back in the glass, noting the patches of blood staining her knees and the splashes darkening her boots.

"Are you injured?" her mother starts in, her hands curving over Hawke's shoulders and spinning her back around.

"No, mother," Hawke grunts, wrenching out of her hold. She clears her face of the small frown before turning back to her, hoping to change the topic. "What new are you sharing with us?"

Her mother's face pinches, those familial eyes darkening in a quick swirl of anger, but there's no chance Hawke would explain to her exactly what she'd done down there. Regardless of her mother's unending pain from the passing of Hawke's father, she wouldn't understand the deep pitted satisfaction she'd gotten from splitting that man's neck.

"Marian, I don't like -"

Hawke's sharp sigh impedes her mother's oncoming scolding and with thinned lips, Leandra finally turns away.

"Fine," she snaps. "I finally managed to meet with the viscount this afternoon and he's approved our acquisition of the estate!"

It falls silent within the hovel, apparently no one had actually expected Leandra to succeed. Even Gamlen hovers by the door, his hand locked around the handle like he's too shocked to remember how to turn it.

"You... got the estate back?" Hawke repeats, eyes darting between everyone in the room. A myriad of expressions cross their faces from awe to relief. But it's the tight pinch of Akarra's eyes that suck Hawke in. The mage blinks, her lips shaping soundless words.

"I did," her mother boasts proudly. "We can start moving any time we wish. It's there, waiting for us!"

Whatever discontent her mother had felt at the sight of her daughter slick with blood has vanished. Now, she swoops down on Hawke, her fingers trailing the length of her arms until she grasps her hands.

"It's all because of you, darling! That gold you acquired, it was enough to get the right people's attention. The Viscount didn't seem particularly overjoyed that we've returned to Kirkwall, but not even he could ignore the name you've begun building, the reputation!"

Hawke's gaze climbs the four walls of the small hovel. With Alistair here, it's gotten a fair bit more cramped. The size of the man... he has to duck when entering rooms! And now with Akarra, it wouldn't have been possible. Hawke had been considering staying with Anders in the clinic, but to have the estate...

Her hand runs through her shortened tips, her teeth rolling over her lower lip. It would be nice to be able to stretch her legs, to walk across a room without tripping over a mabari, or cat, or even her uncle... but the Amell estate? They are nobility again, and that thought alone is enough to steal her breath.

Nobility...

Marian Hawke, a noble of Kirkwall Hightown. Would they expect her to act accordingly? Because she certainly doesn't see her behavior changing any time soon. And she definitely isn't willing to give Anders up, whether it sullies the Amell name or not. Not that she's an Amell anyways, she's a Hawke, always will be. The estate... it's something her mother seems to need, some sort of tie to cling to in the city she'd been reared in. Hawke, she couldn't care less for such things. She has all she needs - in Anders, and her friends.

She catches the slightest motion from the corner of her eye: her mother, wringing her hands, and watching her daughter with such a strong stare. The estate means everything to her. To learn that her parents hadn't died hating her, that they'd loved her even after she'd abandoned all she'd known for an apostate, it meant the world to Leandra. So for her father, Hawke pastes a soft grin on her face and opens her embrace once more to her mother.

"That's fantastic mother, really. Let me rally the troops. I'm sure Aveline won't mind helping. Fenris and Varric as well, though Varric may talk your ear off more than help."

A grin as bright as the sun flashes over her mother's countenance and her arms tighten against Hawke's waist.

"Akarra, you must stay with us," Leandra exclaims the moment she draws back from her daughter.

As one, Hawke's and Akarra's heads snap up, their voices chirping at the same time, both rejecting that suggestion. Hawke's eyes narrow on the woman, noting hers do the same.

"Honestly, you two," Leandra clucks in a motherly fashion. "You hardly know one another! Marian, she is your cousin, a bit removed mind you, but her mother and I grew up together." Hawke's lips part, her retort hanging on the edge of her tongue, but her mother shakes her head, her hands fisted on her hips. "Honestly, why you must rival every woman that enters your life, I'll never understand! You and Bethany used to drive me nutty! What is it with you?"

"I like Isabela," Hawke retorts.

"Maker's breath, child - she's a pirate, of course you do!"

"And Aveline!" Even Hawke winces at the childish tone to her voice.

"Another battle maiden," her mother sighs. "I'm afraid Akarra, unless you're considered a warrior, my daughter won't play with you."

Hawke blinks, her wide eyes flicking around the room to find Alistair and Anders chuckling behind their hands. A first, for sure, to see them willingly partaking in something together. But even the sight of them laughing doesn't distract her. "Mother-"

"Akarra grew up in the Circle," Anders impedes her, his fingers curling gently around her wrist. "She knows a little something about violence. I'm sure they'll get along well enough."

Hawke bristles, her nose scrunching as she turns to regard Anders' friend, standing so innocently against her uncle's wall. Perhaps they might have, if not for her previous snide comment, the judgment she's already placed, or the heated look filling her face at the sight of Anders hand resting against hers. Lips curling into a full mischievous grin, Hawke leans into him, her other hand rising to lay flat against his chest, fingers curling through the feathers. To Anders and most of the room, this little touch goes unnoticed. But Akarra's widened eyes snap up to Hawke's, and sketched across her face is a look filled with more than surprise.

"Yes, Akarra," Hawke muses, gently curling under Anders' arm. "How _did_ you escape the tower?"

She snorts, but her face turns away, brows snapping down over her dark eyes. "Escape?" she scoffs. "Wasn't anything left to escape after _he_ got through with us, now was there?"

Hawke's brows draw down, her eyes searching the hovel for whoever it is she speaks of. She's heard a little of the happenings in the Ferelden tower, but nothing substantial, simply that a group of blood mages had infiltrated and corrupted the circle. She lifts questioning eyes to Anders, but even he appears a touch lost.

"I don't know much about this," he tells her, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "I was in solitude during all this. When I managed to get free, I couldn't find anyone, so I escaped."

"You were lucky," Akarra's dark voice rises from the darkened corner of the hovel. There's pain in her face, and for a moment, Hawke feels for her. "Those that refused to immediately side with Uldred were taken to the Harrowing Chamber. The things he did there," she shudders, her eyes squeezing shut as she drops her brow against the wall. "I watched that man put demons into those I grew up with, those I loved. I watched as they were tortured, as they gave into the demons, as they became monsters." Her voice is low enough that Hawke has to strain to listen, not that she wants to.

Her father had painted many images in his life of demons and mages, she knows the terror well enough. And just as often, he'd kissed her brow and whispered quietly that every day he was thankful she had not been cursed with magic. Unlike Bethany - though he never said that.

"I thought it was a vision when they came," she sniffles, dragging the back of her hand across her nose. "The doors flung open and they poured in, led by this man in golden armor..."

"Cousland," Alistair grumbles, pushing off the kitchen wall and entering the conversation. "He..." he hesitates, his sigh as heavy as his armor. "He took us through the entire tower, clearing out the blood mages and abominations, claiming it was the right thing to do. We didn't know, but he had no intention of letting the mages that remain return to their daily lives."

"I thought the Maker had finally taken pity on us. Uldred fell so quickly, and then he was standing before me, his hand held out, helping me to my feet. So few of us remained. The First Enchanter, myself, and a few other apprentices." Her eyes blazed with the fade. "But it was all a show!" she shouts suddenly. "_We can't be too careful, now can we, _he said! _One blood mage is one too many_. The next thing I know, I'm back in the dungeons, _waiting_ on the Chantry's decision. They weren't even there, and they were going to judge us as blood mages!"

Hawke's breath caught and she drops her eyes from Akarra's, fixating instead on the splashes of blood staining her boots. Her father and sister had never been a part of the Ferelden circle, yet the words hurt to hear either way. What could have been... what would Hawke have done if Bethany had been there during this?

"The templars left to join the war, only a small battalion remaining. _They_ knew we were no threat, yet they _waited_ for the order of annulment. I don't know how long we were down there, but somehow Irving got a templar to open my cell door." Searing eyes flick up to Anders. "Not _his_, _mine_. He told me to run, said he was quite aware that you had shown me a way out. He wouldn't let me help him or the others. The templar had given me a minute to get out. So I _left_ him there."

Hawke's throat swells shut at the sight of tears welling in her eyes.

"He was like a father to me, and I left him..."

"Akarra," Anders whispers, stepping close to her and taking her gently into his arms.

Hawke's stomach flips, her teeth setting into her lip as she watches them embrace.

"You're among family now," her mother murmurs, stepping close to Akarra.

Rage settles over the mage's face, transforming once more into something wild. "You _aren't_ my family," she spits at Leandra. "I was _given_ to the Chantry as a child, _taken_ from my home and handed to another. No one fought for me, not one of you cared. I remember that morning, all your father spoke of was the disgrace this would bring on the family name, and how he would never be Viscount now. He turned his back on me, and so did my mother."

Hawke forces herself to swallow, unsure of what to say to diffuse the situation, but it's her mother that does so, reaching for the girl cradled in Anders' arms with a crooning voice. "Your mother never turned her back on you. She mourned you for years. But when it comes to the Chantry, there is no fighting them."

Akarra scoffs, her mouth twisting wryly as she lifts her eyes over Anders' shoulder and pin Hawke to the spot. She doesn't speak, but Hawke can see the hatred knotting her face. For a moment, Hawke feels guilty. Her mother and father had risked _everything_ to keep their family free of the Chantry. They had done all they could to keep Bethany a secret so the same thing wouldn't happen to her. Akarra had never been given that opportunity. No one had ever stood up for her and protected her.

Understanding now that this woman _is_ her cousin, Hawke dares to step forward, ensuring to keep whatever thoughts she's having off her face. Struggling silently for something to say, she bites down on her lower lip. What _could_ she tell someone who had never been given a chance at life?

Before she can sort out her tangled thoughts, the door to the hovel bursts open, cracking Gamlen in the jaw. A string of curses spills from his lips as he staggers back, but Hawke isn't focused on him. Her eyes lift to the breathless dwarf, perched over his knees as he hovers in the jamb.

"Varric?" Hawke whispers, her heart surging forward at the sight of pure terror streaking over the dwarf's face. She's never seen him in such a state, not even when they'd been trapped in the Deep Roads

"Hawke," he gasps, sucking in sharp breaths as he straightens, his hands deepening into his sides as though trying to smooth out a cramp. "_Run._"

A dark and heavy silence settles over the hovel and she feels it the moment Anders settles against her back. Her pulse in her throat, she steals a step toward Varric, only to jump back when his wide eyes slam into hers.

"Are you deaf?" he rages. "Run!"

"Varric," Alistair questions. "What's wrong-"

Dread's low growl interrupts his question and Hawke's eyes drop to her mabari, crouched dangerously by her feet. His ears are flat against his head, his swart lips drawn back over his thick fangs. _Something_ has him just as worked up as Varric. Stomach in knots, her eyes lift to Anders, her emotions reflected in his face.

"Varric," Anders hisses. "Tell us, _now_."

"Templars," the dwarf pants, his chin jerking back over his shoulder. "Something about the dungeons, I don't know!" he shouts. "I only heard talk - Andraste's tits, Hawke, what did you do?"

She sucks in a sharp breath, her body shivering. It couldn't be! No one had been there, no one could have seen!

"It doesn't matter!" he continues to rage. "You need to run! They're coming!"

"**They will die**," a dark voice rises behind her.

The sound of Justice helps clear Hawke's thoughts and she spins around, her fingers snatching into the neck of his jacket and yanking him down. Blue light casts off his body, but she ignores it; the cracked skin, the voided eyes, everything. "Justice, I need Anders right now!" she hisses under her breath, her hands tightening when he tries to push away. His head shakes, his hands reaching for a staff that isn't there. "Anders!" she shouts in his face.

The fade diminishes and slowly the light fades away, until only Anders remains.

"Listen to me," she begs quickly.

Her stomach lurches at the faint sound of marching in the backdrop. Oh, Maker, they really are coming for her. She can't run, not with Anders and Akarra here. If she runs, she _knows_ Justice will come forth and with it, more death.

"Alistair, hide their staffs, _don't argue!_" she shouts when she hears him suck in a deep breath. "I trust you to keep them safe from the templars, don't fail me."

The marching is so close. She wouldn't have been able to run anyways. Running meant leaving her mother, running meant abandoning both Anders and Akarra to suffer the templars wrath. Running isn't an option. Akarra's family had abandoned her - Hawke would not do the same.

"Listen up, Justice, and you as well, Anders. You are not to speak, you are not to attract attention to yourself, promise me."

"_Hawke-_"

"Stop it," she hisses brusquely. "We don't have time. If you fight, you'll get yourself killed, and likely me to. Do not reach for your staff, do not talk," she reiterates. "Trust in me." A moment of panic pushes her, and she stretches up, snagging his mouth in a quick, heated kiss. Maker willing, it won't be her last.

"Marian!" her mother cries and Hawke whips around, her knees trembling at the sight of _that_ templar standing on her doorstep.

His eyes find hers and with a sick grin wrenching his lips, he points her out. "That one," he informs someone. "That's the one that accosted me in the Gallows."

"And the dungeons?" another templar questions as he pushes through the small crowd.

Hawke doesn't know him, but she catches Akarra's faint gasp and from the corner of her eye, sees her slide behind Alistair, hiding behind his width.

"Likely her as well, Knight-Captain Cullen," that templar proclaims, reaching for his blade. "Alrik was with the other templar assigned to containing her father. Look at her, covered in blood."

The Knight-Captain's hand falls on his templar's. "That's unnecessary at this moment, Ser Karras."

Hawke's narrowed eyes lift to his. _So_, she finally has a name. After so many years.

_Ser Karras_.

"You are Marian Hawke," Cullen says as he steps around Karras and enters the hovel, his eyes lingering on the cramped room. "I have heard of you."

Her jaw sets, but she's unable to pull her stare from the templar at his back. "'Fraid I can't say the same thing."

He hovers before her, that clear gaze dropping her length. She knows what he sees; bloodied weapons, and stained leggings and boots. His eyes continue to track the room until they land on her crimson overtunic. He heaves a sigh and nods, stepping back as three templars march forward. One slaps a heavy pair of manacles around her wrists, yanking them tight, while the other two search for weapons and remove them from her.

"Marian Hawke, you are being placed under arrest for the assault of Ser Karras and the suspicion of the murder of Ser Alrik, Ser Eli, Ser Jarik, and Ser Naria."

Her mother's gasp is sharp and with her fingers pressed into her mouth, she turns to Hawke, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Marian!" she cries out, rushing forward the moment Hawke is pulled out of the hovel by her chains.

Hawke manages to steal a quick glance over her shoulder to find Anders struggling, his eyes flashing.

"No!" she shouts, startling him. "Do _not_ do anything!" she leaves the order open so not to attract attention. If he uses magic, the templars will sweep down on him in a heartbeat. "I _mean_ it. I will sort this out."

A shadow looms over her and Hawke lifts her gaze, meeting Karras' once more.

"I don't think so, little hawk," he growls in her face. "The Chantry does not take well to people killing their ranks."

Her hands are wrenched forward once more, her feet nearly pulling out from under her as she stumbles to find her balance. Pain lances through her wrists, and with a grimace, she quickens her pace to catch up.

Led by the chains, she manages to take one last look at the hovel. As a group, they stand on the stoop, her mother sobbing against Gamlen, and Alistair silently struggling to keep Anders at bay. It's a losing battle and she watches as Alistair has to resort to smiting him, before shoving him back into the hovel.

Unable to see him now, Hawke turns her head forward, and lets the templars drag her away from her family and friends.

Away from Anders.

* * *

_A/N: Okay! Hope you like the little twist I took! Everytime I play the game, I can't believe how many templars you kill without the Chantry going hold on there a sec, little doggy! So that inspired this chap, and the next... I should warn you, the next chap or so is going to be fairly dark. I hope you like them anyway. _

_Don't forget! Fill out that little box below! lemme know what you think of the change! I'm excited for it :) Thanks so much! _


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: Woo, another update! Thank you so much to everyone, as always :D I chose to update so soon after the last chap because, well you guys rock, for one, but also because I leave tomorrow for a week to return home. So it's going to be a week from tomorrow that I can update again xD Hopefully you enjoy!_

_Right, as I said in the last chap - this one is a bit dark. _

_And Thanks to the lovely Eve Hawke for helping me sort out the later scenes :D_

* * *

**Chapter 32**

_Hawke_

Her back is driven into the far wall of the cell, a sharp crack echoing over the damp walls. Her cheek stings, the imprint of a gauntlet hand left burning against her skin. Hawke bites down on her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. What good would it do, anyway? She'd known this would happen. Karras had been eying her since they'd entered the Gallows and dropped down to the dungeons, since the Knight-Captain placed her in his custody. Daft man, that Captain. Blind to the violent desires of some of his men.

"Like killing templars, do you?" his dark voice rises in the muted shadows. There's no light down here - without windows for the sun to penetrate. "Alrik was my friend," he hisses, his armored fingers gripping her chin and squeezing, jerking her around to face him.

Hawke's brow knots, her eyes narrowing. "My condolences," she says. "Return my daggers and I'll be sure to give you the same send off."

Karras stares down on her, poised on the edge of emotion, and then the storm bursts free, a furious rage sweeping over his face. "Bitch!" he snaps, a fisted gauntlet slamming into the same cheek.

Hawke's knees bow and she crumples, only held up by the tight grip crushing her arm. She whips her face back up. A flurry of steel fills her vision once more and this time when he strikes her, a sickening crunch echoes through her ears. Her scream is sharp, and only then does he release her, her body folding in on itself. Hot tears pluck at the corners of her eyes, but she holds them back, refusing to give him even that much.

"You might think you're something else," he growls, before hauling her back to her feet and shoving her roughly against the wall once more. "But you're Fereldan scum. A filthy dog lover with tainted blood."

He grasps her chin again, holding her throbbing head against the cold stone. Hawke's lips wrench into a sneer and she drives her elbow down against his arm and twists in his grasp. She lets her fist fly, grinning sadistically when it connects under his jaw. Karras stumbles back, fingers touching where she struck. She rushes forward, reaching for the cell door when a thick hand ensnares her waist and pulls her back, throwing her into the wall, her head bouncing off the rock. Stars burst before her eyes and she crumples, her boneless knees incapable of holding her up.

"You'll pay for that," he mutters darkly. "Fereldan wench, think you can just do whatever you like. A lesson in manners, I think: how to treat your betters."

She can't stop the crazed laugh that spills from her mouth. "Maybe you should fetch me one first." She shouldn't have said that, and she waits with bated breath for the impending response.

The first blow catches her ribs and gasping for air, she doubles over, her hands deepening into her side as she chokes. Hands guide her shoulders and only at the last moment does she catch sight of the polished knee aimed for her gut.

Pain explodes through her center and dimly, she's aware of falling. A stone ceiling swims above her, the creviced rock spinning 'round and 'round. Blackness creeps along the edge of her vision, the cell fogging as she fights to hold onto consciousness.

The sound of metal falling against stone distracts her and through her fading sight, she watches his armor dot the floor. Her brow slowly drops, worsening the thunderous ache in her head. And then hands tear at her leggings, her ties popping as the templar rips at them.

Soft noises fall from Hawke's lips, her hands mindlessly batting his away. He shouts at her, his words indistinguishable, and he lashes out once more, agony settling across her nose.

The feel of his bare fingers curling under the lip of her leggings rouses a new fear. Panicked sounds tear from her throat and she struggles, kicking and throwing whatever attacks she can land. There are shadows here, she can feel them, but none substantial enough to offer her any sort of protection. An image of the Deep Roads rises unbidden, the darkspawn straddling her, staring down on her with their putrid breath pooling against her neck. Terror drips down her throat, choking her. It's not the darkspawn, but Karras is no better.

It's a brutal struggle, his fingers tearing into her, ripping at her garments, and Hawke battling to keep him from taking her. Screams pour from her, and only distantly is she aware that she calls Anders' name. Karras laughs, a dark sound that settles around her heart, mocking her cries and pleas.

"Changing your tune so quickly, I see," he taunts, his hands gripping painfully at her chest.

Hawke's squeezes her eyes shut, imagining herself anywhere but here. Not for the first time, she wishes she had magic, some form of protection, anything that can be used to protect herself. Her fingers curl into tight fists, half moon imprints biting into her palms. She hits him, scratches, kicks, bites, anything to protect herself from what's coming.

"Karras!" a liquid voice shouts from outside her cell.

Silence settles over them and Hawke's head rolls against the stone, the blurred image of a man taking shape beyond her barred door.

"Go away, Carver," Karras grunts, stilling in his motion.

"You will leave that woman, _now_!" the aged man orders, his voice trembling with unmasked disgust. "Do _not _make me fetch Meredith and Cullen."

Dark eyes slam down on her and Hawke winces before she can stop herself. Silently, she's thanking the Maker for sending this man - the man with her brother's name.

Time seems to drag over itself, the seconds stretching into their own eternity, all while Hawke fights to contain her panic. She just wants him off, and gone. His weight, his scent, it needs to go. Finally, with a sigh, he pushes off her and snaps his armor back on.

Hawke drags her knees into her bruised center and crawls into the closest shadow, fixing herself. Gentle prayers fall from her lips, thanking the Maker that this Carver arrived before Karras could accomplish his goal. With her arms circling her legs, she presses against the wall, feeding him expressionless eyes. She can break down later, when he's gone. But right now, she needs to be strong.

A templar rises before her and she holds onto that, refusing to think of the man beneath the steel.

"Until next time," he snarls at her before stalking out of her cell, shouldering her savior out of the way.

His place is taken by this Carver. Hawke blinks, struggling to clear her sights. An outline sinks down before her, a fuzzy face slowly beginning to take shape. Another templar, the Sword of Mercy sharpening with every blink.

"Bless my eyes. You're Malcolm Hawke's child?"

She swallows, trying to focus on his words. _Carver_... Orsino had mentioned a templar by that name. Her chin drops in a nod, her head shifting and expanding painfully. She must have made a noise because he touches her chin gently, slowly tipping her face to the side.

A slow whistle pierces the silence. "He did a number on you, girl."

"Marian," she rasps, her tongue dragging across her swollen lip. "Marian Hawke."

He nods, a sad light brightening his eyes. "How do you feel?"

A laugh darkens her split lips before she can stop it, her head pounding in beat to it. The bitter tang of blood fills her mouth, and she leans over, the mouthful hitting the floor with a sharp _splat_. "I've had better days."

"Yes," he muses. "I think you require a healer."

Another laugh, this one darker and edged with satisfaction. Her healer is safe with her family, where he belongs. She will submit herself to whatever is needed to keep it that way, to keep him alive.

"You knew my father," she changes the topic, meeting his gentle eyes. She falls into them, her shoulders rounding as she rests against the wall. Somehow, she just knows this templar won't harm her - even if he hadn't known her father.

"Yes," he offers a soft smile. "One of the bravest men I know."

"Knew," she corrects him, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "My father is dead."

Silence fills the writhen cracks of Carver's face. Eventually he settles back onto his haunches, his hand raking through his hair. "I see. My condolences. Might I ask...?"

Hawke bares her teeth, her chin jerking toward the cell, her vision spinning from the abrupt movement. "Him. Ran him through."

Carver pales, his warm eyes flicking the way Karras left. "Oh dear. Is that why you're here?"

Hawke drops her gaze, fixating instead on the cracked stone. "Partly," she admits. "I assaulted him in the Gallows."

Carver clucks his tongue, a very familiar sound, and Hawke smiles. Her father had done the same thing many times, especially when dealing with her antics.

"Assaulting a templar is serious business."

"Not quite as serious as killing them, though."

His chin jerks up, those eyes pinning her. "Oh. That was you? Oh, my dear." He shakes his head. "Your father would not have wanted this for you."

"Well, he's not here, is he!" she snaps, her face crumpling. She winces, tipping her head back against the wall. The flames within lick at her bruised center and she tucks an arm against her ribs, grimacing at the assault of pain. She doesn't even want to know what her face looks like.

"Just because he doesn't walk this plane doesn't mean he isn't with you anymore." His finger taps her chest, where her heart lay beating. "He's in here, always with you."

Tears sting Hawke's eyes and she turns away from him once more. How many times has she heard that? Yet, it never helps. Empty platitudes and promises to fill the awkward silences. She'd learned long ago that her father is gone. Just like Bethany. She would see them at the Maker's side, or she wouldn't. But that doesn't mean he's in her heart. His memory, perhaps, but that's it.

"I should go," he says.

Carver is pushing to his feet when Hawke's fingers snatch at his, her fear of being alone naked on her face. "Wait," she pleads. "Orsino said you could tell me about my father's life, before he left for Ferelden with my mother."

A maelstrom of emotion whisks over his face. "I don't think that's appropriate, my dear."

Hawke's brows snap down and she ignores the deep thrum of pain. "Appropriate? He's my father!"

"Exactly so," he nods. "The man that lived before Leandra died when he met her. I should think he'd like to keep it that way. Your father often said he was reborn the day he met your mother, I shouldn't like to ruin that for him."

"He's dead," Hawke argues. "You can't _ruin _anything for him. There's nothing left to ruin!"

Carver's face smoothes, the lines vanishing as he drops down to her once more and curves over her, brushing a gentle kiss over her head. "There is your memory, child. And I would not see that tarnished."

Feeling a tad bitter, Hawke turns away from him when he rises.

"I shall have a healer sent for you."

"Whatever," she mumbles, sniffling conspicuously as she drops back against the wall, staring ahead at the bare stone, hoping the incessant throbbing with eventually abate.

* * *

_Anders_

"Andraste's ass, are you insane, Blondie!" Varric shouts, waving Bianca in his face.

His words breeze over Anders' head; he could care less what any of them think, all that matters is getting Hawke away from the dungeons. If only that blighted templar hadn't smote him, he wouldn't feel quite so inept.

"Did you not hear a word she said?" Varric continues, his face pinched with concern. "If you go down there-"

"I don't care!" Anders shouts, reaching for his staff. His fingers are within range when it vanishes. Fury boils in his stomach and his jaw snaps up to find Alistair holding it. "You might want to put that down, right now," Anders mutters in a dark voice.

"You heard what Hawke said, Anders!" Alistair starts. "What you're doing is insane! I knew you were touched, but Maker's breath, you're going to get the both of you killed!"

"Not if I get her out first," Anders amends, his lips pressing into a thin slash as he wrenches his staff free of Alistair's grip. His words come out confident and coherent, but inside, it's a bedlam of emotion toiling about. He can hardly string one thought together, let alone develop a plan to rescue her. But that's not good enough! He _must!_

_The templars will harm her, we must free her. They cannot be allowed such freedoms - to take who they want and when. It is not their place_, Justice's weak voice breezes through his mind.

Anders clings to the spirit's thoughts, using them to anchor him to this world. Justice will know what needs to be done when the time comes.

He steals toward the door, the low thump of his boot heels lost to the sudden exclamations flying through the hovel.

"Andraste's ass, man!" the blasted templar shouts once more, his fingers sealing around Anders' arm and yanking him back into the hovel. "You're talking about a full siege against the templars! Getting yourself killed, that's one thing, have at it. But your stupidity is going to cost Hawke her life as well!"

Part of Anders doesn't care. He'd rather she be dead than in their hands, and that realization draws him to a stop, his blinking eyes locked on the door. No, the last thing he wants is to cause harm to Hawke. Her panicked voice rises in the depths of his mind, begging him to hold, to allow her to handle this. But Maker! He can't just sit here and wait for her to come walking through these doors again!

"What's your plan?" Varric demands, a gentle hand guiding him to the center of the room.

His gaze drops, locking with the dwarf's, but his confusion smothers his words until only misshapen sounds spill forth.

"That's what I thought. Ancestor's guide you, Blondie, because you're thicker than stone, I swear."

"And I suppose you have a plan, dwarf?" Anders fires back, a ripple of cerulean fury tightening his face. Justice is weak, his presence hardly noticeable due to that blighted templar's smite, but Anders can still _feel _his worry for Hawke. It's staggering to realize how much she has come to mean to them both.

"I just might," Varric proclaims before he curves over Dread, his lips flurried as he whispers in the hound's ear.

Dread's face wipes clean of his concern and with a quick yip, he bolts out the front door, the sound of his nails skittering against the stone walkways fading with distance.

"Where is he going?" Alistair demands, daring to step up close to them.

"This is a judicial matter," Varric announces. "Hawke won't be freed by someone sneaking into the dungeons to break her out, no matter how much all of you are fantasizing about that right now-"

"I'm not," Akarra mumbles.

"- Dread has gone to fetch us the only person that can possibly help us right now."

"Aveline," Leandra whispers in a pale imitation of her voice.

Regardless of her and her brother's issues, she clings to him, her head resting in the nook of his shoulder. For once even Gamlen appears worried, his fingers smoothing over Leandra's as he offers comforting words.

"Exactly so," Varric mumbles, the severity of the situation robbing him of his humor. "So everyone just sit down and get comfortable. Aveline will know what to do."

* * *

The Guard-Captain's hardened mouth presses into a thin line as she listens to Alistair and Varric fill her in on the situation. Since entering the hovel, everyone has been preoccupied, talking all at once - not one of them have realized it isn't Anders present anymore, but Justice. Only the faint flickers of fade light dusting his fingers is proof of which of the inhabitants is in control. All are far too absorbed to notice the spirit walking amongst them.

"This won't be easy," Aveline mumbles. "The city and the templars are kept separate. Their justice -"

"You dare speak of Justice!" Justice's voice rises from Anders' lips, dark and ringing with truth, betraying their initial silence.

Everyone in the hovel whips around to face him. But it is the templar that holds Justice's attention, Alistair's energies gathering instinctively in his hands. This one had hindered them, smote them when they would have gone after Hawke. Always in the way, always present with his watching eyes.

"Do not touch me, templar," Justice growls. "I am not here for you."

The shock of that revelation brings him up short. He is not here for the templar. He is here for Hawke. It is strange the sensations toiling about his stomach. He has cared for only one person since crossing over, and it is expected that something be Anders - his host. But there are other memories; Kristophe protecting his wife, Anders caressing Hawke's cheek, the faint memory of holding her. He does not partake in such things often, but when he does, they leave him... staggered, and unsettled. He should be swelling with righteousness, marching to the Gallows to slay each and every one that dare harm a mage. Yet, he is stopped, by the mere thought of Hawke. He once proclaimed her to be a distraction and she is, but never had he thought she would be one for him as well.

"I don't think anyone knows what justice is anymore," Aveline speaks up. "Least of all you, spirit. We will find a way to release her, until then, we must all remain calm. These are the templars, she won't be in any immediate danger."

"Swear it," he growls in a dark voice, his voided gaze burning through her.

She shakes her head, her dimmed eyes dropping to the floor. "I will not swear anything to a spirit. I will do my best to free Hawke. That is all I can offer."

A soft sound rouses Justice's attention and his eyes snap over to find the mage, this _Akarra_, step forward. She nibbles on her lower lip; a characteristic, it seems, of the Amell women. More than once Justice has noticed their Hawke's fascination with such a thing.

"Look," she speaks up. "I don't know many of you. And Anders," she does a double take when she finally does look at him, "I know you don't want to hear this, but she killed that man! Alistair and I were there when she slit his throat!"

A faint moan spills from Leandra's lips.

"Is it not justice that she pay for her crimes?"

Her words startle something and Justice feels Anders' thoughts slide over him. "Should Anders pay then, for the other three templars?" Justice demands. "She is being charged with all their deaths."

Akarra drops her eyes. "Anders couldn't control himself." Her gaze lifts and slams into his. "But you should, spirit! You are the one that came down on them, you are the one that nearly attacked me. It got out of hand, because of you. If anyone should be paying for those man's deaths, it's you!"

Justice recoils from the passion of her words.

"I will not pretend that what Anders has done is right," she continues. "He took a spirit into himself, changed what he is, merged with a fade entity. You may not be a demon, but this?" She shakes her head, her long hair spilling about her shoulders. "This is worse. Spirit, you've convinced him you are his friend, but from what I see, you are the problem. If you were Anders' friend at all, if you cared for him at all, you would leave him - to the void with the consequences."

The strength of her words pulls Anders forward and Justice retreats back to the darkness to watch and listen.

"Akarra," Anders murmurs. "Those templars were going to make you a Tranquil-"

"I know," she nods, the pinched line to her face easing at the sound of Anders' voice. "But that doesn't mean what she or your spirit did was justice."

"That man was one of the templars that murdered her father!" Anders shouts, the silvered light of the fade swelling over the fingers that clutch his staff.

Emotion darkens her face, but still, she shakes her head. "I'm not saying what the templars did wasn't wrong. But we cannot simply take their lives. It does nothing but cause more heartache for mages. If the templars see us willing to slaughter them, they will only come down on us harder."

"They need to be taught!" Anders bellows, swaying under the sudden grip of his anger. "They must be shown! It cannot be allowed what they do! They tear families apart, they rape mages, they-"

"Not all," Akarra interrupts him. "Kinloch was not like this. The templars were kinder there -"

He scoffs, whipping around and facing the wall.

"-to some," she amends. "And look what happened, Anders? Uldred took over the circle with blood magic! We are what we are," her voice lowers, destitute. "We are mages, we are dangerous."

His blood heats with these words. This isn't the Akarra he knows; the girl with a dazzling smile and fresh wit. This is someone else entirely. And Anders' heart breaks when he realizes his Akarra never left the tower. She died, along with the other mages. This woman behind him, is as strange to him as the words she speaks.

His head drops forward, his fingers kneading into his brow. "This is not the time for this discussion," he sighs. "Aveline, do what you must to get her out. Do it - before I do."

Tension sings through his muscles, his shoulders tightening with the understanding of his words. He will do whatever is necessary to free Hawke, regardless of her wishes. He will not abandon her to the dark.

He moves for the door - he _needs _fresh air - and is reaching for it when Aveline steps before him. "You can't return to the clinic. The templars are out there right now. I didn't know why until I got here, but they were conducting a search of Darktown."

His clinic. The one place that had been his own.

Rage festers in his stomach, how he _hates_ them. Such punishments, simply for being born with magic! He'd never done anything wrong in his life before Kirkwall, beyond escaping the tower. Yet, they continue to dog his steps, and ruin his life.

A gentle hand falls on his arm and Anders wrenches away, the soft catch of Akarra's breath echoing through his ears. His chin lifts and he meets her eyes for a moment, wishing to the Maker they were the startling blue of Hawke's, instead of the muddied brown of Akarra's.

"One day you'll understand why I did this," Anders avows, finally meeting her gaze. "And when the day comes when the templars take someone you desperately love from you, I'll remind you of this conversation."

"They already did!" she shouts, her words firing up. "They took my family-"

He turns and walks toward Hawke's bedroom door. "You were young then, they weren't your life," he whispers, his fingers brushing against the faintly molded door. "I lost my family too, and found it again, in her. I won't lose it a second time. To the void with the consequences," he repeats her words with just as much conviction.

Nudging open the door with his palm, he slides into the shadows within, his hands immediately gathering the furred ball of fluff winding through his legs.

_Never again._

* * *

_Hawke_

Awareness slams into her, and she wakes to absolute darkness.

Before she can even hitch her first breath, sheer terror sets in. She hadn't meant to close her eyes - hadn't meant to sleep. Not here. Not when they could come for her at any moment. She can still feel the stinging imprint of Karras' hands on her, still smell the foul stench that had been his breath, and in the darkness, it's worse. The shadows are either a friend, or they aren't. And locked in this cell, awaiting conviction or the impending return of a specific templar, they aren't.

Hawke's fingers graze the small pile of rubble she'd been able to collect as a means of weapons. Among the tiny stones is her belt. They'd taken her daggers, but left the thick strip of leather. There aren't many ways it can help her, but sometimes just having _something_ can fend off an attacker. Her digits twist painfully around the frayed ties, clutching at her only hope.

Stripped of her overtunic - collected as evidence - she's left in her thin jerkin and leggings. There's a chill to the dungeons - one that isn't wholly the temperature, but also the situation. She trembles, drawing deeper into the jerkin, hoping to ward off the unending shivers.

At least they'd removed the manacles - that is something. She mindlessly rubs at her wrists; they are the least of her concerns. It's her head that absolutely aches with even the simplest blink. The healer Carver had spoken of still hasn't arrived and Hawke isn't expecting him to. These charges she's being brought under are most severe. It isn't as though she stole a loaf of bread - not that the templars would handle such a thing. She's being held for the murder of four templars; serious business. She's seen how templars deal with those that openly challenge them, but to go so far as to kill them - she can't see how she is going to get out of this. She'd told Anders to let her handle this, but even her mind is blank.

Boot heels slap against the rock floor, jerking her chin up. Pain shifts through her stomach at the sudden movement, her head swimming even though all she sees is darkness. The faint flicker of torchlight appears, dancing over the stone walls, and just behind it is a shadow, swelling in size as it approaches. Silver armor is the first thing she notices, though she has to slit her eyes to see clearly the man beneath it. Amber eyes dart to hers and her breath catches - it couldn't be, _could it?_

It's quite a distinct noise, the sound of the key sliding into a cell door - _her_ cell door. Hawke gathers her legs beneath her and rises, her fingers pressing against the wall for balance. The door creaks open, the metal scratching against the floor.

_Anders._

Elation spreads through her stomach, and she's about to run to him, when a dark voice lifts. "Come, criminal. The Knight-Commander wishes to have a word with you."

Her heart drops like a stone, tears stinging her eyes. Not Anders. Just someone with similar eyes. She tries to convince herself it's best that it isn't Anders. That's far too dangerous a situation, but she'd be lying if she denies the relief she'd felt.

Heavy steel manacles are clapped over her wrists once more and before she can even catch her balance, she's torn from the cell, her shoulder jarring bruisingly against the far wall. Granite hands shove her forward. Hawke teeters, a silent sigh spilling past her lips when she stumbles, her knees driving to the floor.

A harmony of voices rises around her, lifting Hawke's eyes. She hadn't even noticed the cells around her are filled with people, most mages from the sight of their robes.

"Silence!" the templar at her back sneers, "Or it's the switch for you!"

It doesn't take much time at all for them to reach their destination; a hidden room behind the dungeons. She's pushed within once more, and as she catches her feet, a woman's eyes rise from the vellum she reads, a look of utter boredom carved into her face.

"Thank you, Ser Bredin. You are dismissed."

Ah, Knight-Commander Meredith, this must be. Hawke takes a moment to peruse the room, her heart startling at the sight of two wooden posts, ropes strung from the tops and bottoms, and the cat o' nine tails sitting between them. Aged dots of blood darken the floor, and her throat closes with fear.

The door slams behind them, and even though Hawke tries not to jump, she does.

"Sit, please, Serah Hawke," the woman indicates the small stool before her desk.

"I'll stand, if it's all the same to you," Hawke mumbles, the feeling of dread sinking into her stomach.

"Very well. Serah Hawke, I'm sure you know why you've been brought here."

Hawke arches a single brow at the niceties this templar is showing. Her head screams with the effort of her movement, but she does it all the same, her mouth burning when she speaks."You're mistaken."

Meredith's mouth thins with displeasure. "Do _not_ play games with me, I have very little tolerance for them. And you will find my methods much more pleasurable should you simply submit to my questions."

Hawke shrugs blithely, the other brow rising. "I like games. Have you ever played musical chairs? We could play that first, if you like. Or, I know! Hide and go seek. You hide first, I _swear_, I'll find you."

The quill clutched in the woman's hand is slowly lowered down onto the vellum before she curves back in her chair, her icy blue eyes watching Hawke. "I have heard many things about you. When you helped dispel the qunari poison, I thought you could make yourself a useful member of the community - the people certainly like you. They _look_ to you," the Knight-Commander states, watching Hawke with a predatory stare.

"Well, there's so few in this city actually trying to make things better, I imagine the denizens will cling to the first person that shows any sort of effort," she states in a calm voice, though the insult does not go unnoticed.

Meredith's eyes flash with blue light and she straightens in her chair, resting her interlocked fingers atop whatever letter she'd been working on previously. "You have a sharp tongue. You might find this encounter much more pleasant without it."

Hawke's nose scrunches. "I doubt anything can make this meeting pleasant."

The templar's mouth crooks. "Exactly so." Her eyes lift from Hawke's and she nods, another templar stepping up. "We've gathered intelligence that you are an associate of the Healer of Darktown - a known apostate."

Hawke's heart lurches into her throat, blood draining from her face. This is about Anders?

"We know you were not the only one responsible for the death of my men-"

_How in the Maker's name could they know that?_

"-give me their names, give me the mage, and you walk free."

Hawke's chest rises quickly as panic drips down her throat. The Knight-Commander wants Anders - of course she does. The Healer of Darktown is revered, but word spreads.

"We have torn Darktown apart, though no one seems willing to give him up. But I think we can come to an understanding here," Meredith continues, easing back into her chair once more. "Eventually I will have the name of this mage, and location. I would _prefer_ this be simple, but I have a feeling nothing is ever simple with you."

The corner of Hawke's mouth tugs up. "My father once said the exact same thing."

"Indeed," Meredith says before sweeping up her quill once more. "This order I am signing right now is for your release, Serah. It is quite simple, give me the name, tell me where I can find this mage, and you'll be sent home this night."

_Simple_, Hawke wants to laugh at that word. It is far from simple. What Meredith asks is too much. Hawke would never give Anders' name to anyone.

A dark silence befalls them and with a twisted mouth, the Knight-Commander nods to the one behind Hawke. Hands fall on her, guiding her roughly over to the two wooden posts. Her breath catches, eyes streaming at the sight of the whip being lifted. Her jerkin is torn away so quickly, the threads popping under the strain. She's hardly given a chance to catch her balance when two fists lock into her blouse and rip it down the back, the two sides falling away and exposing her back.

Hawke trembles, her teeth setting into her lower lip. She's never been lashed before, but she's seen it once before. It hadn't been a pleasant sight.

Rope slides around her wrists, and with a firm yank her arms are pulled above her head. The same is done to her ankles, pulling her legs apart until her weight is held only by the ties. The braided cables cut into her skin, but she knows that's the least she has to worry about.

"One more time, Serah Hawke," Meredith mutters from her desk. "Give me the name."

Silence once more, though Hawke swears they must be able to hear the furious pounding of her heart.

"Very well, begin."

Her scream is as sharp as the whip when the tail end is brought down across her back.

_One_.

* * *

_A/N: Hopefully you like :) Feel free to fill out that little boxy thing below heh. I'll try my hardest to get something up this week while gone... Seeya then!_


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: Holy Maker! It is *difficult* to format and upload on this site via a phone! So I hope you all appreciate the effort hahaha... Cuz dang! My phone almost went through the wall a few times! Haha. I know it's a short chap but I wanted to get something up for you guys! This chap has a warning for darkness/torture as well, but the good news is, we're nearing the end of this little mini quest xD._

_Hope you enjoy! The entire chap was written on my phone so please forgive any errors! I swear the autocorrect is out to hurt more than help!_

_Eek! I forgot to thank my girls! For all the help they gave me planning Hawke's fun time with Meredith! So my lovely DA FF ladies: The Original Frizzi, Eve Hawke, Liso66, FenZev, WintryOne, and Marina Boccuzzi! Thanks for the help! You ladies Rawk! _

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Chapter 33

Hawke

Hawke sags into the ropes, weals of beaded rubies spilling over the braided cords. A dribble of blood runs down the inside of her arm, and with lidded eyes, she watches the offensive rivulet. Minutes have passed since the last crack rent the despairing air of the room; Hawke only prays it doesn't begin again. After fifteen lashes, she'd stopped counting, unable to do anything beyond mewl and sob. Meredith repeated her questions throughout the entire ordeal, but after the third strike, her words had become nothing more than a buzzing hum in her ears.

The soft thud of boot heels burns away the brume of fog settling over her mind. The templars move about the room, the one with the whip waving it around. Hawke shies away from him, her entire body alighting with pain.

"I commend you," Knight-Commander Meredith says. "Many would have given me the information I seek by now."

Hawke's tongue drags over her dried, swollen lips. The woman steps in front of her, that piercing glare sweeping over Hawke's drooping form. Meredith's fingers tighten around a vellum, crumpling her release order into a useless ball, and Hawke wilts like a dying flower, hope dimming from her eyes.

"Ser Karras, Ser Brody, take her," the Knight-Commander's chin jerks toward the door. Hawke's heart startles; she hadn't known Karras had been here, watching. "Perhaps one of you can make her speak. I tire of listening to her sniveling."

Meredith turns, and it's only because of Hawke's position that the scarlet sparks catch her blurred vision. Blinking, Hawke has to narrow her eyes, but eventually a faded haze forms. A strangle idol is tucked against Meredith's back - one that Hawke could never forget. They'd been betrayed by Varric's brother for that exact idol. How the Knight-Commander came into its possession, she has no idea, and her state of mind is far too broken to comprehend the meaning behind it.

Rough hands unlatch her from the slick ropes, steel arms supporting her lithe weight as she's hauled away from the posts. Hawke's head spills forward, the tension pulling at the muscles in her back. Her sharp breath goes unnoticed.

After her first step, her legs give out, and she's dragged between the two templars, her toes catching against the cracked stone floor.

The cells they pass are silent as they make their way to her cell, pale faces watching from the shadows. She doesn't doubt they'd heard every moment; her throat is raw from the screams and cries. But she hadn't given in, and she never will.

She's dumped back into her cell unceremoniously, pained shouts spilling from her lips when she lands on her back. Never in her life has she felt such pain. It steals her breath and blackens her vision; so intense, she hardly notices the steeled hands that hold her down, or the ones that hover over her shoulders.

"I'm actually quite pleased you didn't give the name," a voice breathes in her ear. Even in her state, she recognizes it. She would know this voice anywhere. "That performance was delectable."

Searing hands press into the side of her neck, and Hawke shrieks, his long fingers probing a gash. She doesn't remember the whip catching her there, but with nine tails, its all faded into a blurred, agonizing memory.

"Now, what can we do to make you talk?" Karras muses, his voice dripping with pleasure. She turns her head away from him, whimpering when her torn flesh pulls.

"What," he snickers brusquely. "No sarcastic words or clever retorts? Such a shame. Have we broken you already?"

She turns her gaze back to him, heavy lidded as it is. "Bite. Me."

His head tips back, laughter pouring forth. "Maybe I will." His hand falls to his side and he unsheathes a hidden dagger, the sterling blade muted in the shadows. "Now, let's see. How can we make the little hawk sing?"

Hawke sucks in a sharp breath, watching as he lowers the silver-tipped point to her chest, flicking away the threadbare remains of her blouse. Bare to the waist before him, Hawke cringes in an attempt to escape him, but her body fails her, collapsing back down onto the grimed stone.

"Time to sing," he whispers once more.

The blade slips under her flesh.

Hawke screeches, her numb hands coiling at her side. Liquid heat pours under her skin as he drags the tip down, the shallow cuts tearing into her flesh. It matters little how hard she struggles, how loud she shrieks, the two do not let her up, and no one comes to her rescue.

The feel of his blade under her skin is maddening; her blood spilling down her side. Tears sting her eyes, her throat raw, the fires of pain licking across her back. Yet, she continues to twist and struggle, pleas falling from her lips.

"Give us the name!" the one above her demands.

Hawke bucks beneath him, her hips driving up into his armored body, trying to vain to throw him clear, all as he continues to carve something into her flesh.

Heated breath pools over her face when the blade is finally extracted.

As one, the templars rise, Karras staring down at her with disgust and something far more carnal alight within his eyes.

"Come on," the other mutters. "We should return to the Knight-Commander. She's not talking."

Karras leers at her, and before turning, spits on her. Only when they leave does Hawke succumb to the endless sobs, her body in agony.

* * *

Anders

The vellum crinkles as Isabela smoothes it out, straightening the warped corners. "This is all I could find, and it's old," she murmurs, leaning heavily over the table.

Anders wipes the exhaustion from his eyes and stares at the mess of maps. "Solivitus, can you look at these?"

As a group, all eyes rise to regard him. Solivitus, a herbalist and potion master typically stationed in the Gallows, strides over to the table, his gaze falling onto the aged parchment. "Oh, this is quite old. The dungeons aren't even on this map," he points out. "And the courtyard has expanded to the west and north, to add wings to the circle tower. Where did you get this? It's useless."

Isabela cocks her hip, her arms curving under her chest. A single, thinly sculpted brow arches high on her head. "I don't see you doing any better, big boy. Seriously, Anders, when you told me about this Mage Underground, I thought it would be a little... bigger."

Anders pushes off the table, stealing a quick glance to their paltry numbers. "They're efficient," he grumbles, loathing the disruption. "Solivitus sees first hand all that happens in the Gallows. He's the reason I know Marian is still alive. Elsa is Meredith's assistant, and very knowledgable of the Knight-Commander's actions. Lirene, I believe you've met. She has her hands in all aspects of Lowtown. Corff provides us access to the roads beneath the Hanged Man, leading to the docks. And Mistress Selby is in the know with the templars. As for you, you and Hawke have snuck into the Gallows before. Isabela, we need you - Hawke needs you."

Isabela sighs and turns, crossing the room in quick strides. "Like I already told you, that was for fun! And it wasn't to break someone out, someone likely under heavy guard."

"We've broken people out of the circle before," he mutters, returning to the maps. "It can be done again."

"Mages," Isabela states. "But this is Hawke!"

With a cocked brow, Anders lifts his head, refusing to let her words sway his decision. Regardless of Aveline, Anders intends to sneak in and get her out, and he's called up his Mage Underground to assist. He will not lose her. "I thought you liked a challenge," he scoffs. "The great Isabela, pirate and adventurer, balking at the sight of templars?"

Her face twists. "Don't bet on it, loverboy. But if your little group wants my help, we do this my way. I won't be the next one to vanish to the gibbets."

"Agreed," Anders nods. His heart resettles in his chest. With Isabela's help, they stand a solid chance of freeing her. And that's all that matters.

She crosses back toward the map, her furrowed eyes sweeping over the drawings.

"From what I've seen, Lady Hawke is being kept in the dungeons, located here beneath Templar Hall."

Isabela snorts, her face lighting up with humor. "Lady Hawke. When did she become that?"

"When her mother acquired the estate," Anders murmurs, his eyes never lifting from the map. "Continue Sol."

He nods. "I've heard... talk," he speaks, flashing Anders a wary glance. "Some templars were laughing as they left Templar Hall, saying she wouldn't last much longer. I fear..."

Anders fist snaps shut and the map creases, his head turned away as he fights off Justice. Both understand Sol's implication and a swath of rage sweeps through his stomach. If they've harmed a single hair on her head...

"Elsa," Anders spits out. "What do you know?"

The Tranquil mage glances up from the maps, her pale hair swishing around her shoulders. "Meredith is not kind to mage sympathizers, as she calls them." Her emotionless voice silences the rest of the room. "This is different. Her behavior has recently been modified. She has become more aggressive and angry. I have not been permitted to attend the meetings with Lady Hawke so I am uninformed as to the proceedings."

"Great," Isabela groans. "An unstable Knight-Commander. Why can't things ever be easy?"

Anders ignores her and stares at the markings labeled Templar Hall. "Selby, has there been any talk amongst the templars that you've heard?"

"I'm afraid nothing that will make this easier," she whispers. "Perhaps we should simply focus on getting her out and deal with the rest as it comes."

Anders nods, his face thinning as the images of Hawke being abused cloud his mind. "The passage here," he taps the map of Darktown, "takes us into the dungeons. But what information we've gathered suggests the templars are large in number here. We need to take her when she's somewhere less guarded."

There's a heavy sigh and Anders lifts his eyes to find Corff watching them with a queer look.

"What?" Anders demands.

"I'm not sure if she'll have less guards here, but there's something you should see anyways. I found it posted on my board in the Hanged Man this morning."

Corff draws a rolled up vellum from his back pocket and lays it out over the map.

Anders eyes fall to it, his gut twisting at the scribbled image of Hawke, drawn hastily in charcoal. Beneath it, words are scribed, ones that make his blood run cold:

Public Execution of Mage Sympathizer Marian Hawke!

30th day of Haring, Dawn. The Gallows.

"30th day!" Anders gasps. "That's - that's tomorrow!"

Isabela and Anders lock eyes, fear transcribed in both faces. With an expiration date placed on Hawke's head, they must work fast.

* * *

Hawke

Strong hands curl over her shoulder and force her into the hard chair. Thick leather straps are tightened around her wrists until she's left unable to move her hands. Fear coats thickly on the back of her tongue, tears already stinging her eyes. Pain licks up and down her back, even from the slightest movement, and her chest sears from the cuts given to her by Karras. She hasn't been given a chance to look, but beads of blood still slip down her chest.

A woolen top covers her, her strips of her remaining blouse confiscated and likely disposed of - covered in blood as it was. This material is scratchy and catches against her back, enflaming the switch wheals carved into her flesh.

She trembles when the strident sound of boot heels echo through the small room. It's the same she'd been strapped to the night before and her eyes ghost over the floor, noting the streaks of flesh blood that are hers darkening the wood.

"You force me to take harsher methods." It's Meredith's voice that rises behind her, before a steel gauntlet rests gently on her shoulder. Hawke recoils, her gaze lifting back to the Knight-Commander's desk, focusing on the lyrium idol. Anything to take her mind from this place.

"I can't imagine there's much left harsher than a whipping and carving my chest," Hawke murmurs, though her usual spunk is missing from her tone.

"There are many methods available to me."

"If all you want is a name, I'll give it to you," Hawke sighs.

Meredith pauses in her path, her icy gaze slamming down on Hawke. "Good. Progress."

Hawke's lips curl back over her teeth. "I think the mage's name was Beatrice. Or maybe Radcliffe."

Meredith's mouth tightens, little lines whitening her lips.

"George?" Hawke asks. "There's so many mages in this city, who can keep track of them all?"

The Knight-Commander's eyes rise above Hawke's head and it's the smallest nod, though everyone in the room sees it.

Before Hawke can even suck in a breath, the marbeled hilt of a dagger smashes down onto her hand. The sharp crack of bone is muffled by Hawke's shriek, and she throws her body back in the chair, struggling against the waves of agony painting through her finger.

"I am through playing games with you," Meredith continues to speak over Hawke's whimpers. "The Mage Underground, what is it?"

When her vision clears, Hawke lifts her head, her cheeks slick with wetness. "What?" she rasps. "What in the Maker's name are you talking about?"

The Mage Underground? She's never heard of such a thing.

Meredith whips around and snatches a parchment off her desk. "The Mage Underground!" she bellows. "You and the other sympathizers are working to help mages escape! I will know what you know! And I will have the name of the Healer! Give it to me!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Hawke shouts, screaming when the hilt is brought down once more, on a second finger. The sound of bone cracking and shattering is one she knows she'll never forget. Horrified, Hawke stares down at her hand through a veil of tears. Two fingers are mangled and distorted, bent in awkward directions.

"Tell me!" Meredith demands, nodding for a third time.

Another crunch echoes through the room, and another shriek spills from Hawke's lips. She bucks in the chair, her eyes squeezed shut as she fights against the pain.

When a fourth attack doesn't come, Hawke snatches at air, her lips trembling when she flicks her watery eyes back up to the woman standing before her. "I will kill you," she growls under her breath, allowing every drop of hate and pain and agony to fill her eyes.

The strike comes and Hawke cries out, bile rising in her throat. Settling her heart, she bites down on her lip. They're just bones, they can heal. It doesn't matter that she won't be able to nock her bow or grasp her daggers until they've healed. The point is, they will heal.

A strange look comes across Meredith's face and with a furrowed brow, she lowers in her seat. "You won't tell me what I want to know, will you?"

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of Hawke's throat. "Not a voided thing. But I hope the Maker takes mercy on you, because I won't."

For a moment, a flicker of fear crosses the Knight-Commander's eyes.

"You think you're doing something here," Hawke states in a voice thick with tears. "But all you're doing is showing the people of Kirkwall that templars are the problem. How do you think the denizens are going to respond when they find out of my treatment? A noble? It's not blood magic that did this. You did this."

"I see your tongue hasn't learned manners yet," Meredith scoffs.

Hawke only continues to laugh, even though it scours pain through her hands, back, and chest. "My tongue shows manners to those who deserve it." She lifts her eyes and spears Meredith with the strongest stare she can muster. "In Ferelden, we put down mad dog's like you."

The pummel of the blade comes down on her second hand repeatedly and Hawke screams, curling as inward as possible, fresh blood slicking her back. When they stop, she stares at the clawed mess of her hands, each finger twisted and bent from the force of the blows.

"I'm afraid, Serah," Meredith states from her desk. "That you'll never get that chance. Take her to her cell," she jerks a chin toward the door. "The people will be shown what happens to mage sympathizers. They will be broken and taught that the Templar Order will not allow such trespasses. Tomorrow, at dawn, they will see what comes of people like you. I'm sorry to say, Serah Hawke, you won't have a chance to follow through with your colorful threats."

Hands fall on Hawke, loosening the leather belts strapping her to the chair. She's hauled from it and dragged off before she can even think of a biting response to the Knight-Commander.

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_A/N part 2: hopefully you liked! Please feel free to fill out zee little box below :) your comments will make my day all the brighter!_


	34. Chapter 34

_A/N: *Phew* After 28 hours of driving, I am finally home! WooHoo! So we have the next instalment for you guys :) the moment I got home, I set down to getting this up for you. Didn't want to leave you waiting any longer. So enjoy!_

_Thanks - as always - to all those that are following along, whether you've favorited/followed/reviewed, whichever. Even if you haven't done any of that and still read, thanks to you as well! Your guys' support is awesome. _

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**Chapter 34**

_Hawke_

Like a ghost from the darkness, he emerges.

Hawke's breath catches silently, and she scrambles to drag her knees into her center. Her arms encircle her legs, holding them tight regardless of the pain rippling like water down her back and hands.

She remembers the sound and feel of every bone breaking and stares down at her digits with a choked throat - they're nothing more than misshapen claws, dangling limply from twisted wrists. The templar had been quite enthusiastic, ensuring her fingers hadn't been the only bones broken. The thought of moving them releases a weak whimper from her throat and only the sight of the silvered man hovering before her cell door can convince her to do so.

The grating sound of metal dragging over stone puckers her skin, but it's the eyes flashing with blue light that robs her of the thin strands of calm she's been clinging to. Her cheek presses against the bony caps of her knees and she sucks in a deep breath. She's been expecting Karras to come - and why not? He takes great pleasure in bringing her as much pain as possible.

"Come little hawk," he mocks her. "Time to swing from the gallows."

Whatever calm she manages vanishes with his words. A sudden sense of fear runs through her nerves like a brisk wind. Not a week ago she'd been drowning, the waves of death beating against her body. She'd seen her sister, believed she would be leaving for the Maker's side. It had been easy then, but this... this is torturous. Her hands... _her hands_... the pain, the torment, why should _this _be the way her life comes to a close? At least the qunari poison had destroyed her from within. This... this husk of a creature she's become is _nothing_. _She's_ nothing.

Her remains will be tossed to the rats of Darktown and there is nothing that can be done. When they'd come for her, she'd thought it had all been about Alrik and his men. How wrong she'd been. Never has she heard a single whispering about this Mage Underground, and regardless of what they do to her, she'll never give up Anders' name. She'd rather _every _bone be broken than betray him.

She holds still, even her breath is stuck in her throat as she stares at him. She'd guessed Meredith's final words to mean this, but hearing it aloud, from the lips of Karras no less, is further torture. They've whipped and mangled her, only to stretch her neck in the final moments.

Sighing, he steps into her cell and curves over her, his gauntleted hands settling under her arms and heaving her to her feet. Hawke's cry is sharp, the skin on her back pulling tight over her wounds. She staggers beneath the pain, her vision as dark as the surrounding cell.

"Let me help you," he mocks, forcing her back straight.

Hawke sways, her heel catching her balance at the last moment. Dots and stars twinkle behind her eyes, and her head swims.

"I see that talent of yours has finally dimmed," he laughs, his pungent breath brushing over her face.

Hawke's dry, swollen lips crack into a woolen smile. What she would give for a glass of water. Apparently those being hanged don't deserve even the smallest niceties. "I'm guessing you don't mean my ability to juggle rats to Orlesian ballads."

Karras' face twists, a flare of emotion streaking through his eyes. "Think you're a funny Fereldan bitch, don't you?"

"No," she laughs breathlessly. "You want funny, you should look in the mirror. I'm only good at two things: helping people, and killing people." She tips her head back against the chilled stone wall, her lashes fluttering as she struggles to muster enough strength to speak. "Guess which category I've put you under."

"Going to try and kill me, are you? When? While you're hanging from the gallows?"

Even she can admit, the chances are slim she'll ever be able to follow through, but she shrugs, her lids cracking open enough to peer up at him through the dark frame of lashes. "A girl's gotta dream."

He snatches at her shoulder and throws her from the cell. Hawke can't help the pained scream when she bounces off the bars. White fire slicks through her hands and she stumbles into the far wall, panting heavily as she fights off the nauseating agony.

"Walk," he orders her, a steeled finger jabbing her chest.

Her whimper doesn't go unnoticed, and his mouth cracks into a sadistic grin.

"This can't all be about me being a sympathizer," she wheezes as her feet cart her out of dungeons. Every cell she passes, pale faces turn up to her, smoothed with pity - an emotion she doesn't care to see.

Karras' laugh is more of a huff. "I could care less about you sympathizing with these creatures." Even Hawke winces at his words.

"All right," she mutters. "So what's this about then? Besides the fact that I loathe you and would pretty much be content with cutting off your face."

A stony glare turns down on her, one that sends a chill down her spine. "You come from tainted blood," he finally announces. "You may not have magic, but you're no better than these mongrels."

She chuckles, not wanting to admit that his passion is terrifying. "Did Meredith teach you that word? Bet you didn't know it yourself. If you don't know the meaning, I could-"

She's slammed against the slick walls, his unkempt face hovering in front of hers.

"How about I cut out that tongue of yours? Maybe that'll stop it from waggling..."

Her entire body goes cold and she has to swallow past a large lump suddenly lodged in her throat.

"Ah, finally, fear," he whispers as he lays the flat of his blade against her cheek. "How I love that smell."

"You can't _smell _fear," she makes the mistake of saying, her mouth running away from her again.

His eyes widen, his mouth flattening into a tight slash. The tip of the dagger hovers near the corner of her eye and Hawke's breath catches.

"Perhaps I should pluck your eyes from you as well? What say you, girl?"

Pressure pushes into her cheek, the blade slicing through corded sinews, and she cries out, wrenching her head to the side. Pain, as fierce as fire, burns up her face, ripping another cry from her slit, swollen lips. Tears of blood form at the corner of her eye, slicking down the jagged gash she can feel cut into her flesh.

"Don't you have a hanging to take me to?" she pants, straining to keep the tip from her socket and the scream she feels building on her lips mute.

Karras pushes off from her, slamming her back into the wall. Scarlet agony spikes to the winged beat of her heart and her head bows forward - oh it _hurts - it hurts_.

"Walk," he orders her. "And keep that blighted mouth shut. Otherwise there won't be a hanging."

She stumbles forward, choking on her air as she folds her hands into her center like broken wings.

At the crumbling door, Hawke pauses. The realization that she's about to feel and taste fresh air once again lifts her daunting spirits. Maker knows how long it's been since she'd been taken. It feels like an eternity had been spent in that torturous room alone, the whip cutting into her flesh.

The sun. That's what she hopes to see. The thought embraces her heart, warming it; if she's going to die, she wants nothing more than to feel the heat baking her skin, taste the fresh and invigorating breeze, and scent the velvet grass.

The door flings open and she's pushed through again.

Steel gauntleted hands immediately catch her, and strong arms guide her slowly over toward the seamed mortar and stone wall, resting her gently against it. For a moment, she wonders which templar this is - come to partake in the scene unfolding before she reaches the Gallows. Hawke lifts her head to find herself staring into the warmest brown eyes she's ever seen. The face is familiar, and she has to blink to clear her sight, blurred and dazed from the darkness of the dungeons.

_Cullen_, that's his name. The Knight-Captain.

Behind him is the slumberous sun, its beams just waking as it rises behind the city landscape, just as she wants to see it. Strokes of color illuminate the dusky sky, promising for a warm day. Her brow creases at the sight of it; a vague thought, as elusive as a cat, drifts through her disquieted mind. Rain feels as though it would be more appropriate for such an occasion. Life will continue, even without her, and the sight of the dawn-filled sky emphasizes that. She'd wanted to see the sun, but the resentment of the moment burns on her tongue as brightly as its rays.

"Sweet Andraste!" Cullen gasps, his hands immediately sliding beneath her elbows to help steady her. "What in the Maker's name happened to you?"

Hawke can't help the comical look that twists her face and her head screams in pain when she cocks a wry brow. "What? I'm not fetching enough to be hanged? Don't worry - I doubt the denizens will notice a thing."

"Fetching enough-? What? Serah Hawke, you've been-"

Her eyes close and she turns away from the horror masking his face, her own going slack. "I walked into a wall," is all she mumbles. This Knight-Captain is surely daft. "Can we get on with this? You may not have plans later, but I have an appointment with my father and sister, if that's all right with you. I would hate to keep the Maker waiting."

His jaw falls slack, and his eyes snap over her head to the templar escorting her. "Ser Karras, I think perhaps you've done enough. I will escort the prisoner the rest of the way."

Stunned laughter tumbles from Hawke's mouth and she stumbles forward, turning at the last moment to catch the flicker of ire brewing in the stormy depths of his eyes. Where has this Cullen been the entire time she's been in the hands of this deranged man?

"See you around, Karras," she blithely mutters, swallowing the burning realization that she'll never avenge her father. The noose awaits her and this templar will walk free. Surely, the Maker can't see justice in this?

Karras lunges forward, but a steel hand flattens against Karras' breastplate.

"You are dismissed," Cullen snaps, shoving the large man back.

One last baleful glare, and Karras stomps off. Hawke wilts, her elbow touching the wall nearest to steady her. For some reason, she has no qualms showing just how broken she is in front of Cullen. He reminds her a bit of Ser Carver; he won't harm her. With Karras gone, she can drop the charade and finally just be miserable.

"My apologies, serah," he murmurs, gentle fingers curving under her bruised jaw.

Hawke sucks in a sharp breath and whips her head away from him, cursing at the fresh scours of pain, breathed anew by his touch. Blood slicks her face, the air stinging her opened cheek. All in all, she should feel lucky he hadn't actually cut out her tongue. Surprisingly, she feels nothing but exhaustion and a bone deep ache that won't abate.

"Come, serah-"

"Hawke," she mumbles.

A wide-eyed stare slowly finds its way to her, as though he's ashamed to meet her gaze.

"Seems appropriate," she says, ensuring only her lips move. "If you're going to kill me, might as well use my name. Death usually forgoes formalities."

He pauses, and a moment later his mouth tugs into a sad smile. "How true. Very well then, Hawke. Shall we?"

She turns her eyes toward the Gallows, noting the rather large gathering. Disappointed, she nods and begins to make her way in a slow, shambling crawl. With Karras gone, she gives mind to her injuries, and the searing pain slows her every step.

"I truly apologize for my men's actions," Cullen whispers in her ear.

"Your men?" Hawke laughs, though it's quiet. "Most of this is the handiwork of your Knight-Commander."

A shocked silence settles between them and as Hawke climbs the Gallows steps, she turns one last time to find Cullen rod-straight, blinking in confusion. Clearly, the Captain isn't aware of his Commander's hobbies.

Not that it matters any longer. The hanged man's noose, that's all that's left for her. Straight-shouldered, she hobbles to the rope and the executioner, wondering aimlessly if stretching her neck will give her a couple inches of height. That'd be nice.

* * *

Anders

The boat cuts its swift way through waves of molten gold and opal, water lit by the rising sun. Anders' eyes open, drifting upward from the full-boled planks of the hull of the boat to the poignant statues sculpted into the sheer scarps rising into the sky; a symbol of those long dead. Weathered hands cup the bronzed faces, frozen in their ever-silent cries - cries that have fallen on deaf ears for longer than he even knows. They stoop over, weeping piteously into their craggy palms, voicelessly pleading for their freedom and lives - only to have them go unanswered. Bound by chains, both literally and figuratively, the Twins of Kirkwall are shackled by their necks to guard the sable stone, and to ward off those that dare enter. For miles these cliffs are visible, along with the pantheon of wicked guardians known as the Old Gods carved into the face. It's the first sight to any embarking to the city - passing through the lamenting effigies.

Anders' fingers grip his seat, the wooden bench groaning under the strain. A whispering voice slithers through his mind, reminding him of the mages' plight and all the templars have done. Justice has agreed to remain curbed for this mission, but the spirit's thoughts are ever-constant, like the stars in the heavens above. Every day that passes, Anders is finding it more difficult of a task to remain separate from the Fade entity. It doesn't help that they are so similar to one another in their fervent beliefs - but lately, he's begun to question where Justice ends and he begins. Or perhaps the merge is blending? Entwined together, their souls weave through one another, their breath feeding each other life. The thought frightens him; soon there will be nothing left for him to offer Hawke. Soon, they will just be _vengeance_.

_Hawke_.

Somewhere in those Gallows is his Marian, he can feel it. He's risking everything, no matter what may come, to save her. He can do no less. Her caroling voice calls to him, through the smoke and fog, and regardless of the silvered profile of templars marching in the backdrop of the courtyard, he _will_ find his way inside.

Isabela had forced him to renounce his staff as a means of entrance. She'd made a quick stop to Varric and stumbled upon the information that this hanging is a trap - to call out the Healer of Darktown. The moment she'd shared that news, he'd shot to his feet, his face slack with the realization. But there is no way he will allow such a thing keep him from her. Templars or not, he _will _put a stop to this.

In the hands of the denizens seated next to them on the boat is Hawke's caricature, scribbled hastily onto the yellowed parchment, with today's date bolded above her head. How he wants to let loose Justice on each and every one of the nobles perched next to them, their hushed voices loud enough to cut to his soul. It appears to be a mixed amount of those that are attending for the sheer perverse satisfaction of seeing someone hanged and those that have come from pure horror. The conversations grow increasingly louder the closer they come to the docks - nobles shouting over one another as they argue their individual points. It makes him sick, listening as they bicker and banter over Marian's life.

"Anders."

He tunes out the voice that is as full-throated as the sea, his narrowed eyes focusing intently on the broken line of templars interviewing the denizens disembarking from the many boats. Robes are searched, pockets emptied, questions asked. His heart takes off in his chest, thumping madly at the thought that their swords might be seized. Magic will _always_ be at his disposal, but the whole point of this mission is to rescue Marian and _not_ reveal himself to the templars. Of course, if he has to, he will -

"Anders," Isabela breathes in his ear, her whisper brushing over the lobe of his ear. For a moment, the hairs on the back of his neck lift, a chill sweeping down his spine. The memory of Hawke curled over him, her teeth nibbling at the soft flesh spikes his pulse.

_Now is not the time_.

"Promise me you are in control," she orders, her fingers bruisingly tight against his thigh. Her voice wavers with fear, so he nods, still refusing to look away from the burnished sight of the militants pacing the entry.

"Give me your blade," she continues, her hand landing palm up on the same leg. "I'll hide it until we get in."

He finally drags his eyes over to her, his mouth having fallen open. "You _must_ be joking," he grumbles heatedly under his breath. "If the templars come after me -"

"They _won't_ come after you," she impedes him, her gaze darting along the starboard length. "They have _no_ reason to even know who you are."

"Unless they are testing everyone that enters for magic," he states in a deadpan voice.

Isabela's eyes fly wide, her bountiful chest heaving - not that he's purposely looking. "Can they do that?"

His head drops in a low nod. "Yes. They can attempt to drain me of my mana."

"Anders," she hisses. "You should have mentioned this!"

"I didn't know they'd be checking people at the entry! Besides we don't even know if they are testing for magic."

Her fingers pinch her brow and she drops back into the bench, her face pinching with displeasure. "You need to release it, then," she says simply. "I don't care what it takes. I don't care what you have to do, but you need to ensure that when those templars inspect you, you aren't carrying a smidge of magic within."

"I can help with that," a familiar voice rises at Anders' back.

He nearly topples off the flat bottomed bench he spins so fast. The glaringly bright sun blinds his vision, but blinking, Anders soon clears a bit of the reflection, a griffon taking shape before him.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he demands the moment his gaze locks with the square face of Alistair. And when in Andraste's ass had he boarded the boat? Anders hadn't even noticed him.

The man's mouth tugs into a displeased smile. "Please. Do you think I'm stupid? I've said it before, and I'll say it again, you're bloody touched."

Isabela stands, her hip knocking into Alistair's as she jars him back a step. "So, Chantry boy, tell me what you intend to do to help?"

His brow knots for a moment and he swings a calculative look toward the Gallows. "There's one way mages can enter those Gallows without being questioned."

Anders' face knots and he follows Alistair's line of sight. Nothing has changed - the templars still pace back and forth, questioning every citizen that attempts to enter. Hawke's execution appears to be the event of the year - amusing as it _is _the last day of the year. It's then that Anders' thoughts line up and he snaps his chin back toward Alistair, his gaze falling on the griffon.

"Come on," Alistair jerks his head back over his shoulder. "Aveline and I have something for you below ship."

"Aveline?" Anders repeats, he and Isabela sharing a shocked look.

"You really are daft if you think you're the only one that cares for Hawke," Alistair hisses under his breath. Anders is _quite _aware of the templar's feelings for her, and if it weren't for Hawke's dislike of the Order, he might have felt a little apprehension toward their friendship. As it is, she has never shown a moment of attraction toward him, regardless of his statuesque form and royal heritage. The dawning realization only shatters Anders heart again. He _must_ get her out of there, regardless of the consequences to him.

"I want to hear what the big girl has to say," Isabela muses before sliding through the tight crowds and ducking beneath deck.

Alistair follows quickly after, pausing once to spear Anders with a meaningful glance. Finally, with a nod, he takes after them, deciding to at least hear them out. Lirene, Corff, and Sol are in place in the Gallows already, but if what Aveline and Alistair have to offer is better, he will take them up on it.

Anders' hand falls on the smooth banister, leading him down the darkened stairway. At the bottom, Isabela, Alistair, and Aveline stand before something, and the look of absolute delight on Isabela's face gives his heart wings.

"It's _perfect!_" Isabela chuckles, leaning heavily against the wall. "Why didn't we think of this?"

Alistair's chuckle is deep, and pleased enough to give Anders' pause. As one, the three turn, brandishing to him something very familiar and something he swore he'd never touch again.

"Where did you find that?" Anders demands.

A flicker of annoyance crosses Alistair's face. "It wasn't hard, you twit. The templar's were searching your clinic for mage paraphernalia -" Anders' brow cocks at the big word for a templar. "I simply went in looking for something else. Really, you need to find some better hiding spots, I found this within two minutes."

_Something else_, indeed. Anders' gaze lands on an emblazoned griffon engraved into the metal section of the breastplate. His eyes trail the checkered blue and white pattern of the pauldrons, and the dark cowl that had once covered his head. He steps forward, his fingers dragging down the folded steel. Even he has to admit this is an ingenious idea, one that he wishes he had thought of and not the fool of a templar before him. He hadn't even thought of his Grey Warden armor when arranging how they would sneak within.

"Get changed," Aveline orders him. "My guards are slowly trickling in, much as I suspect your own people are -"

"Wait," Anders jerks his head up, his brow creasing. "You can't mean to conscript her?" His stomach twists with the thought of Hawke becoming a Grey Warden. Regardless of how much he owes Cousland, the thought of her belonging to his ranks... her sense of duty is far too great for her to abandon the ranks as he and Alistair had done.

"No," Alistair says softly. "Aveline has something worked out on her end. This is simply our way in without having you checked."

His gaze darts between the two of them, his fingers fumbling nervously at his sides. Without his staff, he fingers the threads of his jacket instead. "Why are you two doing this?"

Aveline steps forward and for the first time in all his time knowing her, drops a hand on his shoulder. "We all know what Hawke means to you. But she means a lot to us as well. Rather than waste time arguing with you, if you swear to me that you'll let me and my men handle this, I promise you can be there."

"Won't it look strange that a Grey Warden is there to help Marian?" Anders muses, his fingers stretching the distance to caress the armor that he'd worn for such a little time and still came to loathe.

"I think at this point, that's going to be the least of the templars concerns," Aveline answers before drawing back. "Suit up. We're almost docked."

* * *

The moment Anders and Alistair step off the boat, together, the masses veer away from them, wary eyes barely lifting past their breastpieces. It isn't that Grey Wardens are feared - revered, in fact - but the armor and weapons appears to be making the denizens nervous today, understandably so.

Anders' fingers pinch the lip of his cowl and slides the material as far down over his head as possible. He withdraws into the thick shadows, imitating the small nuances he's witnessed from Hawke, lowering them over his face. Alistair flicks a quick glance at him, his eyes widening momentarily at the sight of him half veiled from sight.

"Maker's breath, Hawke has taught you a lot," he murmurs before snapping down his visor, vanishing behind the thick folds of steel.

Anders' breath catches at the sight of amber eyes peering out from the thin slit. He looks like most of the templars - a man hidden by the armor.

"Halt," a deep voice rises before them. "What purpose do the Grey Wardens have here?"

Anders and Alistair both pause and with a tight jaw, Anders waits, allowing for Alistair to take the lead. Slowly, step by step, Alistair approaches the templar, towering over him until the poor man is cast within the Grey Warden's shadow.

"You mean to deny us entrance?" Alistair demands in a voice deeper than anything Anders has ever heard. "Need I remind you we are Wardens? And who are you to question us?"

The templar balks, his throat working as he struggles to swallow. His eyes flick about the courtyard, silently pleading that someone come to his aid, but all are busy with their own charges, searching bags and checking for mages. A brisk chill snakes beneath Anders' skin as the templar next to him attempts to drain someone's power from beside him.

"T-This is an execution," the templar stumbles over his words, his steeled hands falling on his pummel. "I'm afraid we can't -"

"You have no say over what we can or cannot do," Alistair snaps, his voice alone jerking the templar back to order. "We are Grey Wardens. We do not abide by politics. We've come searching for recruits among your Order and we will not be turned away."

"F-Forgive me," the templar stutters. "But before you enter, I must check to see if you are mages."

"Do I look like a mage?" Alistair growls through the helmet. "Besides, Grey Wardens allow mages in their ranks, or have you forgotten that? Step aside right now, or I'll be forced to speak with your superiors. Hindering Grey Warden business is a serious offense."

"No," the man squeaked. "G-Go through, ser."

Alistair feeds the man one last baleful glare before stepping past him and entering the courtyard with Anders hot on his trail. Regardless of his severe dislike for the man, he has to admit, he'd rather enjoyed watching him scare the Maker out of the templar.

Once swallowed by the crowd, Anders pushes down his cowl, his eyes darting to the front of the forum, climbing the wooden Gallows, landing on -

_Marian!_

His breath catches and he starts to shiver, staring up at her from below. _Maker's breath_, after days without seeing her, without knowing _what_ has been happening to her, to finally look upon her, the emotion within is staggering. His jaw tightens, his fingers digging into the sides of his steel armor.

"Well... in the words of our dear friend Varric: _shit_," Alistair murmurs under his breath, his voice clear and concise now that he has removed his helmet.

Anders' ears perk in Alistair's general direction, but he can't tear his eyes from Hawke. A rivulet of beaded rubies dribbles down her pallid face, her skin slicked scarlet. His breath quickens and his fists tighten, fingers curling inward one at a time at the sight of her sallow cheeks and bruised eyes. How he longs to loose the blade strapped to his back and cut down each and every templar, whether they touched a hair on her head or not.

He hasn't moved, hasn't even spoken, yet her gaze slams into his. The weight of that stare is staggering and his knees bow under it. How does she know? Surrounded by dozens and dozens of people, yet she picks him out as though he is the only one standing in the courtyard.

"Anders," Alistair beckons him.

For the second time that day, he ignores the voice calling his name. He can't acknowledge it, not now, not swaying under the hold of his anger as he is. Those _bastards!_ They've had her in their custody for _three_ days... and this is how they've treated her? Aveline had said she wouldn't be in imminent danger with the templars - Anders should have known better. He's witnessed firsthand the atrocities the Order is capable of; he's been on the receiving end himself.

"_Anders_," Alistair growls, a gauntleted hand snatching around his arm. "You need to get control! If you lose yourself now, Hawke dies. And I _won't_ risk her life before you had a temper tantrum."

"Temper tantrum!" Anders snaps under his breath, still unable to tear his eyes away from Hawke. She looks so... broken. "Look what those _bastards_ did to her!"

Her eye - _Maker's breath!_ Blood seeps from the corner, red tears dripping down her face. The jagged gash follows the line of her cheek, and when she shifts just slightly, he catches sight of gleaming muscle. He can't look away, not now, not when the noose is strung so tightly around her neck. The rope loops around her neck, and rises, tied around the wooden gallows. Anders' heart stutters. They need to end this soon, before he loses her.

Alistair continues to preach, his words slowly whittling away at Anders' anger, reminding him that they need him to stay calm, they need him to be here to help Hawke. The templar is right, as much as Anders doesn't want to admit it. But when his eyes finally leave Hawke's and trail down the length of her body, a broken sound tumbles from his mouth.

"Her hands," he chokes, his voice thick with tears. He can't remember the last time he's cried, but tears certainly form now, blurring his vision of her misshapen hands, her fingers bent and contorted in unnatural angles. "Oh Maker, they... broke her hands."

"Anders," Alistair snaps, his grip closing around his arms and spinning him around. "You _need_ to knock this off. Hawke is going to need you. If you can't keep control for yourself, think of her. She's going to need healing."

He nods desperately, his face drained of blood. When he turns back to her, his heart surges forward when she offers the smallest smile. But when she follows with a sharp shake of her head, ordering him not to do anything, he chokes on his despair. _Never_ would he sit here and do nothing. And regardless of what she's signaling, he does not intend on listening. She rips her gaze from his, her eyes snapping to all the templars surrounding him.

Anders' chokes on his breath, his fingers rising to pinch his brow. Trust Hawke to worry for _him_ even in a moment like this. Like he cares about the surrounding templars. Hidden under the guise of the Grey Wardens, he's untouchable.

"You with me?" Alistair whispers.

Anders manages a nod before lifting his head back up. Hawke still watches _him_, even as the thunderous sound of the Knight-Commander's boots thump up the Gallows. Panic drips down his throat. "Where's Aveline?"

"There," Alistair motions to the side of the crowd where Aveline marches with a small battalion of men at her back.

Anders hadn't found the time to ask her plan, but now he finds himself wondering. When he dares steal another glance to Hawke, he finds she's watching Aveline too, a curious look sculpting her face. The way she wilts against the noose, her body sagging, he can't help but wonder just what has been done to her. So pale, so brittle looking, he fears the noose will immediately snap her neck.

Aveline steps up to the Knight-Commander and hands over vellum sealed with the viscount's personal wax sigil.

"Come on," Alistair whispers, his hand latching onto Anders' arm and dragging him behind him.

"What's she doing?" he questions, his eyes still seeking out Hawke, even as they weave through the crowd.

"Aveline managed to secure an order from the viscount that they release Hawke."

Anders' head snaps back to the Alistair. "What? How?"

"They don't have any evidence that it was her beyond the word of a templar that wasn't even present at the times of the murder," Alistair informs him.

"But her overtunic..."

"We all know that Hawke tends to get into fights with gangs and other beasties. Who is to say the blood isn't from that? It wasn't easy though. The Knight-Commander holds a lot of power over the viscount. In the end, only the fact that the viscount's son is missing saved her life. Viscount Dumar agreed to deliver Aveline the Order of Release so long as Hawke promises to find and retrieve his son."

Anders' eyes fill with the agony of hope, Alistair's words giving his heart reason to beat.

If only it could go that well.

As they approach Aveline, the incensed words of the Knight-Commander rise above the crowd.

"This order has no say over my prisoner's punishment!" the woman raves. "Marian Hawke is charged with the murder of my men-"

"Of which you have no proof," Aveline argues, her back straightening as she meets the Knight-Commander's gaze full on. Anders has to give her credit here, very few would be brave enough to do such a thing.

"_Proof?_" Knight-Commander Meredith shouts. "She was found covered in blood not moments after the crime was committed-"

"Marian Hawke is known for warring against the gangs of Lowtown, cleaning up the streets to make it a better place for the denizens. Has she once admitted to these crimes?"

Anders' eyes narrow, and he catches the flinch from Meredith, her head swinging back to Hawke.

"I was never questioned about those murders," Hawke's voice lifts quietly among the crowd, a breathy imitation, and thick with pain.

Aveline's eyes lock with Meredith's. "You have the mandate from Viscount Dumar, Knight-Commander. You are ordered to release Marian Hawke-"

"Ordered!" Meredith scoffs. "Who are you to order me-"

"I am not ordering you to do anything," Aveline interrupts her. "I am repeating the viscount's orders, which supersede yours."

"This woman is a source of information," Meredith resorts to, her finger jabbing not. "She is a known mage sympathizer. She refused to deliver the name of the Healer of Darktown-" Anders' breath caught again and his gaze flicked back to Hawke to find her watching someone else, another templar creeping up the gallows. "-as well as information regarding the Mage Underground."

The ground fell away from Anders, the sky above spinning around and around. All questions regarding him and she'd refused to give in, so they'd... broken her hands...

"Release her," Aveline snaps. "Do not make me fetch the viscount."

"Yes, hide behind the man that won't even leave his throne room," Meredith bickers. "A fine leader, indeed."

"NO!" someone suddenly shouts.

As one, Alistair, Anders, Aveline, and Meredith whip around in time to catch sight of that templar wrenching back on the switch. Time comes to an absolute stop the moment the door beneath Hawke's feet falls open and she drops through, the rope snapping tight. Terror scours through Anders stomach and he's reaching for his missing staff, his eyes bugging at the sight of Hawke dangling at the end of a rope, her broken fingers yanking on the noose. For a moment, he feels relief that her neck hadn't snapped, but it's burned away quickly by the fear and realization that if someone doesn't do something, she'll suffocate.

She struggles, her feet kicking as choked sounds fall from her mouth. Her face reddens, even as she plucks and digs into the rope, searching for anything to save her from death.

His feet are moving, about to launch himself up the gallows when a silver streak appears from nowhere, his blade suddenly driven into the wooden beam of the gallows, severing the rope and releasing Hawke from the noose.

So much shouting. So much noise. All buzzing through his head, but all he can see is Hawke, a crumpled lump sprawled on the ground, unmoving.

Anders shoves past the man he knows as Cullen and immediately drops down to the ground by her side, his hands hovering over her body. Right now, he could care less that he's in Grey Warden armor, and that he likely shouldn't be showing any form of emotion for her, but it's impossible.

A shadow settles next to her and he drags his head up, his eyes latching onto Cullen. He remembers this templar, from his Ferelden days - knows him to be fair, something he's just proved by saving Hawke's life.

"Is she alive, Anders?" he asks, proving that he clearly knows who he is. As well that he is a mage. Thankfully, because of Aveline's and Alistair's quick thinking, he is untouchable, so long as they never learn that he abandoned the Order.

Anders drops his eyes back down to her ashen face, nodding slowly. "Yes, thank you." The words burn on his tongue; never would he have thought he'd find himself thanking a templar, but Cullen_ had_ been closer to Hawke than him, and he can't deny what the Knight-Captain has done.

"Get her out of here," Cullen whispers. "My men... they did things-"

Anders can't hear the templar's words through the burning roar that forms in his head. He can _see_ what they've done to her. His fingers graze against her shattered hands. He knows how much it will hurt her to reset the bones. But it will hurt her more if she never picks up a bow again.

He slips an arm under her knees and one under her back, lifting her without breaking stride. Even unconscious pained sounds spill from her lips, and with horror filling his stomach, Anders' eyes drop to the woolen top. A single weal stretching over her neck, the split skin still welling with blood, makes his blood run cold. He knows whip marks when he sees them. His stomach warms with rage, his fingers sparking with magic.

_Not here_. _Get her home, heal her, then find an outlet_.

Cullen rises next to him, a sad look muting his features as he gazes upon her. "I wish I had done more," he whispers before turning and stalking off.

It's Aveline that appears next, her face paling at the sight of Hawke recumbent in his arms. "Flames, what did they do to her?"

Anders knows the answer to that question and it leaks from his lips in a threatening voice. "Tried to break her."

Her eyes flash up to his. "I can take her-"

"No!" Anders snaps, his fingers tightening against her knees and side. "She stays with me."

"Anders, you're supposed to be a Grey Warden, how will it look if you carry her out?"

His jaw sets, his shoulders straightening as he starts toward the boats, determined to get her home so he can address her wounds. "Ask me if I care."

* * *

_A/N: yay! No cliffhanger! So, hopefully you liked this adventure! Feel free to fill out that lovely box below letting me know what you think :) I adore reviews, seriously lol. Thanks!_


	35. Chapter 35

_A/N: Oh Boy. So much to say! Let's start with my apology for this taking longer than normal to post. This entire week has been dedicated to the final stages of one of my own projects and I was too involved with that to even think about DA - sorry! Today we finished it, after **many, many** hours of beta'ing (thanks to Eve Hawke and WintryOne for assisting with this! I took them away from their own works too, I'm sure). I immediately set to getting something down for you guys to read! It's smaller than normal, but I thought you guys would like something rather than nothing. So needless to say, I am exhausted. As such, whatever errors you find, please forgive. My brain is so fried, I couldn't even tell if this chapter was half-decent or not! **  
**_

_Second - Eve Hawke has chosen to take this story and tell it from Alistair's POV! Exciting, right?! The ideas she has for this are quite enthralling and I **highly** recommend you check it out. It's titled Of Flame and Blade and is on her profile. This story needs some love and will definitely be worth your time. She's a dedicated author that loves to keep the reader entertained and happy, what more can you ask for? Plus, nothing wrong with spending time with Alistair, right? She'll be focusing primarily on the things we don't see in this story from his POV. So yea, again! You should check it out! And that's all I'm going to preach about this chap :D _

_As this weekend is a long weekend, I'm going to try to update this again for Monday, to make it up to you guys for having to wait an additional day for this chap. _

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**Chapter 35**

_Hawke_

Voices swell around her, the fluid sounds flowing over one another. A drowsy murmur floats through the air like thistledown, and only at the last moment does she realize it's coming from her. She can't make out the word she calls over and over, her thoughts are far too scattered to understand.

"Do you hear that?" a mellifluous voice rises, as sonorous as the lower notes of a lute. She knows the person it belongs to, a ghostly image forming in her muddled mind; eyes that glimmered like green emeralds, and hair as white as snow, with a stern face and perpetually knotted brow. _Fenris_.

Those nearest her fall silent, the tension spiking as they all listen. Even with her eyes closed, and her body drifting in and out of consciousness, she can feel the strain. The murmur continues to spill from her lips in an impassioned prayer, she can't seem to stop it.

"Is she - oh." She knows this voice as well, recalls the very sound of it, urging her to run, the baritone wavering with a note of fear. _Varric_. "Breath, Blondie."

Not Blondie, _Anders_. That's the supplication falling from her mouth in a rushed whisper. _Anders_. How many times had she yearned to scream his name, to beg for him to put an end to the torture. She'd bit her tongue, refusing to give them anything on him. Now, knowing she can say his name as often as she likes, it pours from her lips.

"I'm fine." A sinfully rich voice growls, the resonance thick with caustic strength and braided with an otherworldly presence. In her darker moments, she'd been sure she would never hear him again, and she takes comfort in his words.

A laugh rises; a simple one, as though he's afraid to reach deep for true volume. "Sure, that's why you're moments away from setting the furniture on fire. You're making Bianca twitchy, and I can smell the Fade on you - that's something, coming from a dwarf."

"Varric, I'm-"

"You are especially agitated, mage," Fenris interrupts him, though his words lack his typical condemnation.

"Well, forgive me!" Anders shouts, energy crackling and snapping with his incensed tone. "Look at what they did!" His voice drops into a soft sigh as warm fingers graze against her slit cheek.

She doesn't mean to moan, but the broken sound pulls from her mouth before she can stop it. His touch stills, his breath quietly catching. Searing pain burns through her face, the heat rousing her other injuries as it blazes through her body. The internal flames scorch over her back, turning it into a raw, bloody mess. Her throat constricts, and she's grateful - it's the only thing that stops the screams from tearing free of her mouth.

Not a noise escapes her caged lips but she isn't surprised that Anders recognizes she's in pain. Magic bathes her body, his heated hands pulsing above her. A wash of healing soothes over her, the mind numbing pain dimming.

"Fenris, Varric, out," Anders orders. "Send in Aveline, Isabela, and Merrill on your way out."

Hawke longs to see his face, to fall into those amber eyes and trust that everything will be all right. It takes every last bit of energy to crack her lids and when she does, she sees nothing beyond blurred outlines. It'd been much the same in the gallows. Standing before the countless numbers, they'd all bled together, until one stood out; her knight in Grey Warden armor. Regardless of what he wears, she would know him anywhere.

It'd been easy to deduce in the scaffold that he'd come to save her, but she'd feared he'd arrived in time to watch her dangle at the end of a rope.

Long, dark lashes feather her cheeks when her eyes close. She can't help it - the light is far too bright and the blurred shapes that the form of a certain templar.

"Marian," his voice rises distantly though the blood roaring in her ears.

His name tumbles from her mouth, breathy and edged with the dark pain consuming her.

"Hawke?" Varric's voice chases hers, drifting off when she keeps her silence.

Her eyes are just so heavy. Through the haze of agony, her friends call to her and _oh_, how she wants to acquiesce. She longs to see them as much as they do her, but the fog is much too heavy.

Weariness weighs on her bones. The Fade is calling her and through the Veil a familiar face takes form. It's been so long since she's laid eyes on her father that she nearly caves and allows sleep to take her. Not once has he sought her out since he'd been taken from her, even though she prays nightly for him to visit her dreams.

Eyes as bright as the noonday sky swim within a sculpted face, below the renowned Hawke hair - deep and dark as the night.

"My brave little shadow," his voice says, low and gentle. "So courageous."

She's given no chance to answer before he begins to fade away. _Too soon_, she wants to scream for him, but no sound escapes her lips. With a mute whimper, she extends a hand, begging him to come with her.

"Now is not the time," he tells her, his mouth tugging into a smile. "Be safe, my Marian-"

"Marian," an urgent whisper brushes against her hale cheek, her dream shattering around her.

Hawke groans and finds she can move her head soundlessly.

"Is she awake?" a sultry voice asks. She knows this one as well, remembers the heated rush of breath when the woman whispers in Hawke's ear. _Isabela_.

"She's in and out," Anders answers clinically. "Isabela, I need the cuffs removed so I can turn her over."

A carnal chuckle lifts in the room. "Most want the cuffs _on_ when they -"

"Do you ever stop talking, whore?" a deep, burning voice demands. Hawke would know this voice anywhere. She's never heard anyone other than Aveline refer to Isabela in such a manner. She might even have found it funny, if she could muster up enough energy to find _anything_ amusing. Must be grave, indeed, for those two to be in the same room.

"When they what?" a softer timbre now, her voice lilting with pure curiosity. "What are the chains even for?"

"Think about it, kitten," Isabela muses. The heavy press of Isabela's boots thump unfamiliarly against stone. It's odd enough to distract her from the sound of Merrill's voice. The echo of her uncle's hollow wooded floor is missing and a fresh wave of pain drowns her when her brows drop into a slight frown. "Now let's take a gander at these chains, shall we?"

Warm fingers swipe over Hawke's wrists. Unable to control herself, she jerks away from the feathered touch, her body cramping with pain as her eyes flash open.

"Hello there, sleepy head," Isabela winks, her bronzed face hovering over her.

The pirate is shunted to the side and Hawke tries to blink away the grit and dirt. "Anders," she groans, the chains rattling as she draws her arms limply into her chest.

Sadness shines from his eyes and he drops down next to her, his palm resting against her brow. "Marian."

One word, just her name, and the tension bleeds away. The rigid landscape of her shoulders smoothes, the back of her head falling against the fluffed pillows. Her pain is a constant hum, thrumming through her body, but with Anders here, it means little.

"Hurts," she whispers, her tongue sweeping over her rough and dry lips.

Rays of anguish flash within his eyes and he nods. His voice is dark but full of control when he jerks toward Isabela. "The chains, if you'd please."

"Right," she nods. "Sorry, you two lovebirds were making me so sick, I forgot about them."

"_Isabela_," Anders growls, his fingers against Hawke's brow flushing with heat.

"All right, all right," she concedes, shooing him out of the way. "The two of you are lucky. I own a pair just like this, and -"

"Isabela!" Anders barks. "Just get them _off_."

Her low chuckle sweeps through the room. "Déjà vu, anyone? No?" her eyes cast down on Hawke and she shrugs lightly. "Just me, I guess."

A chorus of sighs echoes through the room. Anders' elbow props on the bed and he drops his head down into his palm. Hawke's unfocused gaze peruses him; his face appears gaunt and shadowed, a thin layer of stubble darkening his clenched jaw. Their time apart did little good for him as well, it seems.

"Going to touch you now, kitten. Try not to jerk away - no one likes it when -"

"Just -" Anders spits out through ground teeth. "Get the chains off."

"All right, tell Justice to keep his panties on."

"'Bela," Hawke murmurs.

"Sure, gorgeous. I've got this. Don't worry your pretty little head," she prattles, her voice filling the terse silences. Her fingers fetch into her hair before loosening a long pin. Maker knows where that came from. With her lower lip caught between her teeth, she curves over Hawke's wrists. "It's all about... knowing..." she muses, her eyes closing as she blindly feels her way around the lock. "How to touch them."

A sharp click sounds and her friend straightens with a triumphant grin. "Oh, I'm good."

Hawke's words are muddled, the discordant link between her mouth and brain rending her senseless. Every inch of her is filthy, covered in dried blood and dirt, but something else holds her attention The narrow columns of her wrist are battered, swollen red sores festering where the manacles stripped her raw. She hadn't even been aware of the metal rubbing at her flesh, so lost as to her other ailments. She can feel it now, the moment the fresh air settles into the wounds. Her head deepens into the pillows, her gritty eyes rising to an unfamiliar ceiling.

"Anders," she murmurs, fighting not to squirm as Isabela turns her attention to the remaining three manacles locked around her other wrist and ankles. Her voice bristles with tears, but she refuses to give in - the templars milked every last tear they're going to get from her.

"Yes?" he whispers as he gently brushes strands of matted hair off her brow.

"Where are we?"

The question seems to startle everyone into silence. Isabela's chin jerks, her lips crooking with amusement.

"The Amell estate," Anders finally tells her. "I suppose you haven't been up here yet. This is your room."

Her knotted face lolls over the pillow, angled toward Anders. Trust her mother to _still_ move into the estate while Hawke had been held hostage by the templars. While she was being whipped, her mother had been what... choosing curtains? Her lips press into a tight line, holding silent regardless of the words hovering on the edge of her mouth.

The second manacle bursts open and the chains around her wrists fall onto the bed in a jangled heap. Isabela's knee presses into the mattress and she breaks at the waist, curving over Hawke's ankles.

"Once lover boy gets you all fixed up, I'm taking you shopping. Once you bathe, that is, because balls, you _stink_, Hawke. I've had men on my boat for months that were fresher than you."

"Thanks," Hawke whispers, her gaze meeting Anders'.

She can taste his impatience on the back of her tongue. She shifts, wishing to reach out for him. A heavy sigh graces her lip and her gaze sweeps back down the length of her arm, settling on her swollen digits. Maker, but she remembers the sound of them shattering, and a shiver creeps down her neck from the rising memory.

Anders lays his hand next to hers. "I'll do my best to try and keep it as painless as possible."

She sucks in her lower lip, her tongue laving at the cleaved gash. The manacles fall off her ankles as one, the weight noticeable now that she's rid of them. She expels a harsh breath, happy to be done with those foul things.

"All right," Anders releases a long breath and rises to his feet, his tormented eyes watching her. A nod signals the beginning and Merrill and Aveline sweep down on her, helping her up with as little pain as possible. Their fingers grip the hem of her woolen shirt covering her and carefully guide it over her head.

The moment the material vanishes, an explosion of beryl light floods the room. Hawke fights against the glaringly bright assault, throwing up a mangled arm to ward it off.

"**I will kill every one of them for this crime**," Justice roars, his voice cleaving through the blinding light.

Isabela cocks her hip against the poster bed, picking at her nail beds with feigned ignorance. "Unless you can heal, Justice, I suggest letting Anders return to us."

"**This **_**cannot **_**be allowed!**" Justice paces the length of the bed, his voided gaze flashing with cerulean light. "**They have maimed her**."

"Yes, we have eyes," Aveline snaps.

Hawke's chin drops, her hooded gaze scouring the swell of her breast. She'd forgotten about that lovely parting gift and her pulse spikes the moment the memory returns of Karras perched over her, his silver-tipped blade slicing into her flesh, carving the emblem of the templars into her breast.

Her clawed fingers grip at the sheets and pained cries fall from her mouth as she struggles to draw it over her. The brackish taste of shame presses on her tongue and her cheeks flood with color. How can she let them see this? Let them pay witness to the templars cruelties - to see how they debased and broke her.

She wants them gone - Anders, Aveline, Merrill, Isabela, all of them. Ignorant to the agony spearing her fingers, she pulls tightly on the covers. She makes a sound and though it's soft, Isabela's head jerks toward her. A storm flashes over her friend's countenance and the pirate stalks across Hawke's room. A startling crack stuns them all.

Justice and Isabela stand in the center of the room, both breathing heavily as they stare each other down. The reddened imprint of Isabela's hand stands stark against Anders cheek.

"I don't care who's in charge right now," Isabela growls in a voice unlike anything Hawke has ever heard. "But you _will_ control yourself mage. Hawke needs you to help her. Do you understand me spirit?"

The wraith-like stare finds Hawke and eventually the energy crackles and vanishes. Anders staggers back, his hand cupping his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to - it's just seeing that..."

"_Control_, Anders," Aveline reminds him. "Tell us what you need and we'll do it."

"Hot water, soap, bandages, lyrium, and food," he lists it off. "And send me Fenris."

"But-" Isabela glances back at Hawke, her gaze sweeping over her vulnerable form.

"Just trust me, we'll need him," Anders sighs, his voice weary and tired. "Merrill, help me lower her onto her stomach."

In the end, Hawke is draped over the bed, her arms carefully placed next to her. It seems Anders had been the only one to notice her lash marks. Both Aveline and Isabela walk out of the room with tears shining in their eyes at the sight of her marred back. Merrill instead shakes her head and lays a gentle hand on Hawke's head before whispering an elven prayer and leaving the room.

"Anders," Hawke calls him again.

His loud steps carry him over the floor until he enters her sight. For the moment they're alone and she takes the only opportunity given to offer him a paltry smile.

"Thanks," she says. "For coming for me. I - I thought... I didn't know -" she forces herself to swallow, her words breaking down within her constricted throat.

"Shh," he croons, dropping to a knee by her side and smoothing back her hair once more. His eyes hold fast on her face, refusing to dip down to the angry weals carved into her flesh.

"If I don't get a chance to say this later, you look very handsome in Grey Warden armor."

A forced smile rises to his lips. "Are you trying to tell me I'm not always handsome?"

For the first time since waking, she laughs. It's dog-tired and weary around the edges but it's there, though she winces after, her body scolding her for attempting such a thing. "You're always handsome," she admits. "I just wanted you to know, though I do miss your feathers."

"You and me, both," he sighs, dropping over her to brush a kiss against an unmarked patch of skin. "Do you remember how I told you not to scare me to death anymore?"

Her mouth crooks. "Yes."

"When are you going to stop doing that?"

"Never," she confesses.

He cracks a smile, a bit more genuine than before. "I suppose that's a good thing."

Together, their grins slip. They both know that one day her luck will run out. That's the way of life.

He lays his head against hers, mindful of every wound she carries. His fingers smooth her hair behind her ear before trailing over her unmarked cheek. "I'm going to put you to sleep while I heal you," he tells her finally. "It will minimize any pain. I'm afraid -" his words lodge in his throat. "I'm afraid you're going to have scars. I can close the wounds, but they've been sitting for too long without healing."

Her heart turned to stone and dropped into her stomach. "The one on my breast as well?"

His lids close and for a moment she's mesmerized by the sandy lashes laying against his cheeks. "Most likely."

Tears well in her eyes and she averts her gaze, ashamed to let him see. The templars have taken their pound of flesh and blood and she will wear these marks for the rest of her life. She doesn't want to cry, not in front of him, but the emotions are too strong and they burst free into a soft sob.

"Marian..." Anders whispers. "It's going to be all right."

Her sobs turn into racking laughter, the pillow dampening with her tears. "Do you want to know what my first thought was when they strung me up?"

Anders nods with a small smile, though pain flashes over his face. "Absolutely."

The words are too difficult to get out and she can't do it with him watching. She shifts her head, burying her face into the soft folds of the pillow. There's pain but it's nothing new, and she's far too tired to even care anymore. So accustomed to the agony, she expects it with every breath and movement.

"My first thought," she mumbles into the pillows, "when the lashes began was questioning if you'd still love me."

Silence. Its weight is too much of a burden to bear and she turns back to him, her eyes cast to the edge of the bed.

"You -thought... how you could think that I'd ever stop... Marian -"

A fist releases her heart and for the first time, Hawke takes a full breathe. His words, while muddled, return the strength and spirit the templars have stolen from her.

"You silly girl," he chuckles despondently. "How you ever thought I could stop loving you... Has anyone ever told you how foolish you are?"

"Every day," she admits in a weak voice.

"And I intend to do so for the rest of my life," he murmurs, the tips of his fingers running through her hair.

The creak of her door silences their conversation but Anders holds her gaze, his eyes shining with unspoken words and promises. They fill her heart with such hope and a little of the pain fades away. With him at her side, she can do anything.

"I was told you have need of me," Fenris' voice came from the doorjamb.

Anders rises to his feet and turns, displaying Hawke to him. She can only see the elf's profile, but it's enough to catch sight of his terse lips and drawn brow.

"I see," he says as he enters the room. "You wish me to dress her wounds?"

Anders' head dips in a nod. "I'm going to put her to sleep so I can reset her bones. While I'm doing so, if you'd prepare the salve to bind the wounds on her back..."

"Do you not intend to heal those as well?"

"As best I can," he sighs. "But I think the salve will still be needed."

"Fair enough," Fenris mutters as he drops down to Hawke's side.

"When you wake up, you'll be as good as new," Anders promises. "Whiskers Rebellion and Dread are waiting to see you, so let's make this quick."

A promise that can never be kept; Hawke wilts with the realization. Never again will she be _as good as new_. She'll bear these marks the rest of her life, the memory of what the templars did embedded into her flesh and mind.

Her eyes grow heavy, her muscles falling lax against the bed. Sleep hovers on the edge of her consciousness and within the brume, her father's face takes shape.

A light kiss brushes against her head and soft words find their way to her ear. "Sleep. I'll take care of you."

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_A/N: Like I said, short, but serves the purpose :) So, let me know what you thought! That grey box below adores attention... Who am I kidding, its me that adores the attention. Thank you! _


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: Hmm, got this up a bit earlier than expected! Yay me! It's... 2 am here and I couldn't sleep, so naturally I chose to write. As such, whatever mistakes you find, I apologize! My mind probably isn't all there right now haha. _

_Thank you to everyone who is reading! I know I say it every chapter but you guys deserve it! This story... I never expected this response and every day your comments fill me with love :D Feel free to continue doing so. I love it as much as you love updates :D_

_This chapter I've decided to dedicate to both FenZev and Eve Hawke who wanted more_ _comfort and Anders love. And well, who am I to argue? I want me some Anders love to. Eve Hawke in particular wanted to see a specific scene, so this first half is all for you :D Hope you like it! And FenZev - Told you I would update tonight muahahaha... _

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**Chapter 36**

_Anders_

Her eyes close and the softest sigh spills from her lips as she slips into the Fade. The floor is hard beneath his knees but he wouldn't rise for the world. By her side, that's where he belongs and he cares little any longer about what people might say or think. She is his to protect, and he failed her. He won't let it happen again.

His fingers thread through her shorn locks, carefully brushing the thick fringe back from her face. Her writhen cheeks are gaunt with dark bruises blooming over her sallow skin. Beaded rubies still drip from the jagged gash spiring the length of her face. How close they came to taking her eye; his stomach hardens, his fingers tightening slowly into a fist. Piqued thoughts take wing, the otherworldly presence hovering at the back of his consciousness threatening to consume him. Anders' chin drops, his eyes screwed shut as he forces himself to take in a calm breath. He lost control once, he will not do so again.

Justice's manifestation shatters, the fade spirit condemned back into the depths of Anders' mind. Whispered thoughts pass between them; Anders begging him to remain dormant and Justice thundering about repaying the templars twice fold for such atrocities. His spirit is inconsolable, the brackish tang of his rage swelling over Anders' tongue. It takes time, but eventually Justice recedes and Anders' shoulders round with relief. The spirit has come to care for Hawke, Anders can feel the emotion reaching toward her, but it's a deep respect with the distinct taste of warmth.

His long fingers uncurl and inflame with aurous light. Like fire, it burns over his hand and pauses at his wrist where he holds his magic still. Healing has always come so naturally to him, odd for someone that is capable of causing so much chaos.

The weight in his heart loosens as her cheek knits back together - not even a seam remains. The bruising retreats, the internal bleeding healing and vanishing before his eyes. Her cleaved lip seals, whole once more, and as plump and soft as it should be. A single lambent finger drags across her mouth, smearing away the drops of blood. This is how she should always look, peaceful and content.

Her face hale and shining, he turns his gaze to her length of back, his breath shuddering at the sight of the ribboned mess.

"I have... seen worse," a deep voice embraces him.

Anders startles. He'd forgotten Fenris is here and he lifts his eyes to the silent elf, standing tall and strong at the foot of her bed. Mossy depths peer down at Hawke's back, his brow knotting with extreme rage.

"But not many," he bites out in a wavering growl, finishing his thought. "Tell me what you need of me and it will be done."

Anders' head dips with silent thanks. "I'll heal them and then I was hoping you might be able to dress what remains. I don't think I'll be able to heal it entirely. The wounds are a couple days old and have begun to close naturally. It's likely there will be scars."

Light flashes in the dusky room, drawing Anders' head up. Fenris' fingers have clenched around the pummel of his sword, his face drawn into an incensed sneer. Nodding, Anders draws the covers down to the swell of her back, ensuring to keep her bottom covered. The weals criss-cross from her neck down to her lower back, as though the templars meant to ruin every inch of her.

Anders is not the only one to sway with anger. The elf next to him mutters in Arcanum, employing every expletive he knows.

"I find it hard to believe this is the work of the templars," Fenris grumbles, silently ghosting across the stone floor to reach for the bandages.

"I would show you mine," Anders snaps, his anger carrying away his words. "But that feels catty."

Fenris turns to stone, those shining eyes flicking up to him. "You... have marks like this as well?"

"As do you, I'm sure. Three of a kind, we are."

Fenris' body ignites, white fire filling his markings. "Do not compare yourself to me, mage. I was submitted to-"

"The abuse of your master, I know. If you'd just open your eyes, you'd see it is the same. Mages are locked away, held hostage in towers, with the templars there to do as they please."

The elf sneers and snatches up the bandages, his baleful glare spearing Anders. "Perhaps you deserved it, then."

"Did you?"

A simple question, but one that silences the elf.

"Did Hawke?" Anders continues, his voice breaking around her name.

Fenris' eyes drop to her back. "She murdered four templars."

"One, but who's counting," Anders asks dryly. "And she wasn't questioned about them once." He remembers her words while standing on the scaffold, and the information Varric provided them. No, these marks are his doing. The templars wanted him and the Underground and she'd refused to give them up.

He lays a hand upon her smooth cheek, cradling it gently. Even in her sleep, her mouth tugs up and she rubs against him like a cat. The bitter taste of fear coats his tongue. He remembers all she said, how she'd feared he'd no longer love her. But how can he not? Never has he loved anyone so strongly in his life. This woman had taken punishment meant for him, had protected his name and identity, and they'd nearly destroyed her. The real question is how can she still love him? These abuses are his fault. Yet, she smiles in her sleep, sinking into his touch.

He will do anything to keep her. _Anything _to show the world that mages are worthy of finding this, of being happy. Because of his actions, one day two people will love each other and there will be no repercussions from that. Justice once believed her to be a distraction - how wrong he'd been.

She is the cause.

Anders hands float toward her back. Magic unfurls from him like a summer vine, spiraling down and penetrating her back, the silvered coils braiding around her wounds. He fills his mind with healing thoughts, picturing her back whole and complete, without a single mark left on her flesh.

Pain explodes within him.

Anders rears back, snatching for air as he tumbles to the floor, staring up at the shimmering ceiling. The room rocks on its side, the walls bowing inward and ceiling crumbling down. Groaning, he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubs.

"What happened?" Fenris demands, the distinct sound of his blade leaving his sheath forcing Anders to meet his stare.

The elf hovers protectively near Hawke, his sword held before him. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he sways to a soundless beat, waiting for the impending attack. Anders rises to his elbows and pushes off the ground.

_Hawke_.

He crosses the floor on his hands and knees, rushing back to her side, his mouth falling open at the sight of her back. He's never seen anything of the like - a black fog oozing from the welts, settling over her flesh.

"What in the Maker..." he whispers, his hands hovering above the foreign substance. The pads of his fingers touch between the lashings, passing through the haze with no resistance. Whatever it is, it doesn't appear to be harming her further. A reaction to his spell, perhaps?

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" Anders asks of Fenris, slowly waving the fog off her back.

"Magic," the elf spits, his hands clenching and releasing the hilt.

Anders restrains from rolling his eyes. He _knows_ it's magic. Drawing on his knowledge learned in the tower, he casts a quick aura cleansing spell. A glow of pearly light swells around his hand, warming his fingers with the lifeward energy of the Veil. The substance reacts instantly, burning away like an early morning fog. A pungent smell rises and groaning, both men shift away, waving their hands to clear the stench.

"Do you know what you are doing?" Fenris growls.

"More so than you," Anders answers, lowering back down over her back.

Never has his healing magic been thwarted and with a grimace, he casts a healing aura, hoping for a different result. Luckily for their noses, there's no repulsive smell - nor does her back heal. His gaze darts to her face, still slack with her dreams. Anders' mind reels. In the tower, he'd never been given the chance to heal lashes such as these. When he'd been whipped, he'd been stripped of all mana and the templars had made it their task to ensure his energies didn't return. They'd healed naturally, and the white ridges left behind are proof of that. He didn't want the same thing for Hawke, but have the templars here found a different method to ensuring the wounds couldn't be healed? His heart breaks with the thought and he falls back onto his haunches, his brow resting against the edge of the bed.

Who is he kidding?

Of course the templars found a way to ensure the mages would wear the marks until the end of days. How else would their lessons be taught? His fingers drag over his brow, smoothing away the perpetual knot.

"There is lyrium in those wounds," Fenris' voice fragments Anders' thoughts.

He lifts his head, gazing over Hawke's back. "What, where do you see that?"

The warrior shakes his head, his hair tumbling before his eyes. "I do not see it. I can sense it."

"You can... _sense_ lyrium?"

Fenris bears his teeth. He straightens and slides his sword home before pacing the length of the room, his bare feet slapping against the stone floor. "Yes, I can sense lyrium, mage. Can you not?"

"Of course I can!" Anders scoffs. "But I'm not exactly _listening_ for it right now."

Fenris scoffs, but holds silent, allowing Anders to turn his attention back down on Hawke. He stretches out with his mind, as he would if he needed to search for a tear in the Veil. His consciousness skims over her back and sure enough, there it is, below her flesh, imbued in the wounds.

"But there are no burns on her back," he states. Lyrium is known to cause serious injury, typically burns.

"Perhaps it was the whip," Fenris sighs. "Little need to waste lyrium if the weapon is soaked in it."

Anders' stomach twists. If that's the case, he won't be able to heal her back. His breath quickens and his face knots. He's shaking, he can feel his hands trembling at his sides. He _should_ have let Justice loose on the templars within the Gallows. He would have slaughtered every last one of them and they would have deserved it! This... this isn't right. Tears sting his eyes, his fingers resting against her side.

"Make the poultice," Anders bites the words out, his eyes closed as he struggles with his rage. "I'll heal her chest and then set her bones while you put together the salve."

Fenris' head whips up, his fingers stilling against the bandages. "Her chest?"

Anders' jaw sets, his teeth grinding shamelessly. "They marked her with the Sword of Mercy," is all he says.

On her stomach, he can't _see_ the wound, but he knows exactly where it lies. Ever so gently, he lifts her from the pillows, his hand hovering below her breast. Very little blood escapes the wound, a sign that it's healing. The warm glow of his magic ignites and he presses it over the carving, his chest loosening when the cuts begin to close. Her skin knits together, the surrounding bruising and swelling vanishing. The moment the skin seals, he draws his hand back to find the faint outline of the sword. He'd been right, there are marks left behind. But they're less than he'd thought, at least he can take solace in that.

He eases her back down onto the pillow and sweeps down her arms until her shattered hand lies within his palm. When he'd first laid eyes on her hands, he'd felt a rage unlike anything. It hasn't dimmed yet. Her thin fingers lay swollen and contorted, the back of her hand like mulch. At least this he can heal.

"You may want to leave the room to organize the poultice," Anders sighs, lifting his eyes to Fenris before his begins. This will be by far the worst part.

The elf's eyes drop to her hands, knowledge filling the bright depths. "Proceed. I am no stranger to broken bones."

No, Anders hadn't thought he would be, but the offer has been given either way. Nodding, he sets to work. Three of her fingers he has to re-break before setting, having healed in the days gone by. Every crack and sharp snap, Hawke jumps in her sleep, pained whimpers spilling from her mouth. Anders wants to weep, knowing that _he_ is the one causing her pain, but it's more important to heal the injuries. In the end, Fenris is needed, his hands gently pressing her shoulders into the bed as Anders turns to her wrists. These are the worst, the pummel shattering each and every bone. Every cry shreds through his chest and plucks his heart out, and all because of the blighted templars.

The echo of people pounding on the door is distracting, but he can't stop. The final sickening crunch echoes through his ears as the door bursts open. Heavy steps cross the room as Anders sends a wave of magic into her. He can _feel_ the pain clouding her dreams, her cries tearing out his heart. But it's done and he leans over, whispering these promises into her ear, gently wiping the tears from her creamy cheeks.

"Andraste's flaming sword!" Alistair shouts. "What are you doing to her?"

Anders doesn't turn to face the templar, nor does he look up from Hawke's side. "Get out," he growls in a voice worthy of Fenris.

"What?" Alistair demands. "You're sitting in here -"

His anger finally sparks and Anders shoots to his feet, whipping around to face the gathering that had burst into the room. "Get out!" he shouts. "I'm healing her, that's what I'm doing. Now get the fuck out!"

The room falls silent, multiple sets of eyes watching him. Anders drags his hand down his face and drops back down to Hawke's side, smoothing her hair back.

"Come on," a soft voice rises at Anders' back. He knows it's Akarra but that means little in this moment. He just wants to be alone with Hawke. Shivering, he curves against the bed, his wavering fingers running the same path over and over through her hair.

"It's all right," he whispers to her, dragging his knuckles down her jaw. "We're done. You're all right now."

He glances up once, pinning Fenris with a demonic stare. "Where's the poultice?"

For once the elf holds his tongue and simply returns to mixing the herbs.

* * *

_Hawke_

Hawke wakes to the faint scent of cedar riding on a brisk breeze.

Her head lolls over the pillow, hooded eyes settling on the picturesque window sculpted into the wall next to her bed. The glass is thrown open, the curtains ruffling in the meadowsweet air. Inhaling the redolent fragrance, her heads falls back, lashes fanning her cheeks.

From beyond the window, she listens to the pleasant chatter of the world. In the distance, a bird sings its morning song, it's chirps and whistles loosening the remaining knots in Hawke's body. Voices rise to her sill; merchants preparing for the day of business, greeting those they now and laughing jovially.

Her mattress dips, drawing her attention to the foot of the bed where a very solemn mabari rests his head. Muddy eyes watch her, the emotion in his face pricking her eyes.

"I'm fine," she whispers to him, waving him over.

His head lifts from the covers, but he holds still, his soft whine rending the silence of her room. Hawke stills, her eyes landing on her raised hand. She turns it over and curls her fingers into her palm, astounded by the lack of pain. The freedom to move them rounds her shoulders and drags a sigh from her mouth. She hadn't realized how broken she'd felt, lacking the ability to simply move her fingers. Her wrists appear whole, her skin pinkish and tender but without sores and cleaned of the blood.

Her mouth tugs and a small laugh falls into her palm. For the first time in days, she can move with little to no pain. Her head is clear, her face unblemished. Her tongue flicks against her lower lip, tracing the small seam where it'd been cleaved in two. A small scar remains but she'll take it.

She stills again, the thought of scars dragging her eyes down her chest. Wrapped in silken threads, she can't see the state of her breast. Fingers suddenly trembling, she slowly unclasps the eyelet hooks holding her top together and peels the sides away. Thick swaths of stark white bandages cover her chest and wrap around her ribs and back. The distinctly spicy scent of agrimony drifts into her nose, wafting from the dressings covering her breast. Her chin curves over her shoulder and she shifts the top down, exposing the dusky rounding of her shoulder. She opens her garments, staring down at her stomach and arms. Every bit of bruising has faded and the layer of grime washed clean.

Her eyes trail to her back where the dressings are much thicker. The faintly sweet fragrance of calendula settles into her lungs and when she finally dares to move her entire body, there's no blinding pain stealing away her senses.

Hawke releases a long breath, relieved that the nightmare is over. Time to heal, that's what's needed now - time to regenerate and find the strength to walk the streets again. How many had been there to witness her hanging? How many would whisper harsh words when her back is turned? Labeled a mage sympathizer, would this only add to the challenges of her life? She eases back into the pillows, nibbling her lower lip.

What does it matter if they've labelled her a mage sympathizer? That's what she is, there's no shame in announcing it to the world. If the templars want to bring the Void down around her knees as punishment, she'll accept it. They hover on the precipice of change, perhaps her time spent in the Order's care is all that's needed to take the leap. Flemeth's raspy voice rises in the chasm of Hawke's mind, reminding her of all that had been said atop the summit of Sundermount. The witch can't possibly have seen this?

Dread jerks his head toward the door, his stub of a tail wiggling eagerly. Hawke pushes off her elbows, rising up against the wall just as the door opens and Anders enters. With his back to her, she listens as he speaks in a low voice to someone hidden around the corner.

"Just give me more time," Anders sighs, dragging his hand through his hair. "Varric, please -" he voice breaks away and with and sigh, leans into the jamb, his hand clinging to the door as a means of escape. "Yes, I know you want to speak with her, but she's sleeping - Varric -"

Hawke's mouth pulls up, her fingers pressing into her lips as she listens to his exasperated tone.

"I'm going to check on her right now," he says under his breath. "Just... Yes, all right. The moment she's awake, I'll let you know."

Anders retracts from the door and closes it with a gentle click. He slumps forward, his brow resting against the wooden panels.

"Everything all right?" she murmurs.

He startles, his chin jerking back over his shoulder. At the sight of her sitting in the bed, his eyes brighten and he flashes a devastating grin that flips her stomach. His mouth moves but before he speaks, he flicks a glance back to the door and presses his finger to his lips.

Crossing the room, the heavy thump of his boots quickens her blood. Awake and alert, Hawke gazes into his eyes as he closes the distance between them, her heart thumping desperately. How she loves him - her _mage_ that risked all to come to the Gallows for her. It could have meant forfeiting his own life, yet he came. Tears well in her eyes, but she blinks that back, smiling instead.

The bed shifts under his weight as he lowers down beside her, placing a smattering of packed herbs on the nightstand. The warmth of his hand cupping her cheek is sinful and Hawke sinks into him, her lashes fanning her cheeks as she revels in his touch.

"How are you feeling?"

Her smile spreads, her lips pressing against the inside of his palm. "Much better."

"Marian..." Anders whispers.

She rubs her face against his hand, taking solace in that she can. A simple hum is all she offers as a response. Anders withdraws his touch and her eyes open in time to watch him rake his hand down his face.

"What?" she asks.

"I just..." he clears his throat and drops his hand down into his lap. "Let me see how well your healing."

She straightens and her fingers slide beneath the soft coverings, drawing them slowly down over her shoulder. The finery pools at her waist but it's his distinct catch of breath that makes her wince. Even she can admit the gaudy dressings aren't entirely pleasing to the eyes.

Eventually she raises her eyes, waiting for him to move. Silence settles between them and she watches with mild irritation as his eyes flit around the room, while fingering the hem of his cotton shirt.

"Well?" she mutters, her voice lowering. He hadn't been this skittish around her yesterday and it had been far worse then.

"Right," he mumbles as he pushes up onto the mattress and reaches for the bindings. She can feel the pressure of his fingers as he unknots the tie and slowly begins to unbind her. Avoiding her gaze, he keeps his own on his movements. "I don't want you to be upset." His breath brushes over her bare shoulder and she shivers.

Anders' words die in his throat, his eyes finally darting to her face as he disposes of the bandages. The herbal scents perfume the air in her room now that her wounds have been exposed. He steps away, his gaze on the gauze. She doesn't look down yet, not with the sight of the scarlet compresses so evident. The dressing is stained with her blood - she hadn't known she'd been bleeding still.

"I thought you were going to heal them," she whispers, unable to tear her eyes from the slicked gauze.

"I was able to heal most of what they did," he admits in a quiet and shamed voice. "Your hands, the bruising and cuts to your face, even most of your -" his voice breaks so he jerks his chin toward her breast. Finally, she glances down, her heart surging at the healed sight of the templar emblem. The cuts are aged and white, but the sight of the Sword of Mercy is stark against her skin. He'd told her it would scar and it seems he'd been right. She tamps the emotion back, afraid if she starts to cry, she won't be able to stop. The Order has branded her.

"But your back..." he trails off once more.

Hawke swallows and averts her gaze, turning her face away from him. She's a mess, a ruin left behind by the templars. They've taken what they wanted out of her and left behind nothing more than a symbol of what happens to those that cross them. It's no wonder Anders hadn't wanted to remove the bandages, it just shows how weak she'd been, to let them maim her like this.

Her body betrays her and the sting of tears forces her to turn entirely from Anders. Her movement gives him her back, but she doesn't care. He's seen it already, but he doesn't need to see her collapse.

"They look much better," he says, his touch grazing between the weals.

Hawke holds her silence. She'd been so happy to see him and now... She's never felt so exposed before and suddenly she just wants to be alone.

"I wasn't able to heal these," he admits, unaware of her impending break down.

Her lower lip trembles, her body trembling ever so slightly. She pins her stare across the unfamiliar room, staring at the shrank likely filled with her paltry possessions.

"I tried," he continues. "But my magic wouldn't touch them. There was a strange reaction..."

Heat bathes her back, his magic soothing over her skin once more. She waits to feel the typical stitching of skin, but she feels nothing.

Sighing, his hands fall back into his lap. "I don't know what it is. But these wounds won't be healed by magic."

"Of course they won't," she bites out through grit teeth. Trust the templars to punish mages in ways that can't be healed. How else can their lessons be taught if their victims can wave them away with a hand.

"At least I could remove your pain," he sighs.

_Not all of it_ - though she keeps these words to herself. Her heart races in her chest and her breathing is shallow. _Leave, just leave_, she begs him silently.

The bed shifts under his weight and she stiffens until his boots return to the floor. Hope takes flight but she doesn't turn, she can't. He shouldn't see her like this, distraught and broken. Anger, that's what she needs. Anger can bear the brunt of all emotion. She can hide behind it, use it as a wall to shield herself with. But pain? Pain tears through every defense she's ever raised, bares her to all who can see. He's seen her nude, but never truly naked.

The sound of his boots rounding the bed nearly undoes her. Her lip won't stop trembling and the searing tears that she blinked back earlier have returned with a vengeance. He stands before her, but with her face turned toward the floor, all she sees are his black slacks and tall boots.

"Marian..." he whispers, his fingers hooking beneath her jaw. He tries to tilt her head back but she resists, jerking away from his touch.

She should have known that wouldn't be enough to convince him to leave. He takes a knee before her, peering up into her face. She doesn't know what she expects to see but she starts to shiver from the sight of his stoic face. It must be bad for him to hide him emotions from her. He holds her gaze, the amber light unable to chase away the despair settling over her.

Quite sure she won't be able to hold onto her emotions any longer, she drags her eyes from his and turns her face away, fixating her stare on the floor instead. The last thing she wants is for him to see her break down. She's always been so strong - even in the Deep Roads she'd managed not to fall apart. There'd been tears but this is different. She wants to shatter, draw her knees into her chest and just weep the world away. The templars didn't just take her flesh and blood, they took her pride and her strength.

Her face crumples and before she can move away, his hand slides over her cheek and cradles it, her tears defying her every attempt to ward them away. The pad of his thumb strokes her jaw, his other hand rising to cup her face, easing it down toward him. When their gazes connect this time, his face is soft, eyes bright with concern. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and then Anders tilts her head down until her brow rests against his.

"Forgive me, love," he whispers in a voice low and thick with emotion. "I took too long. All this is my fault."

Hawke shakes her head, her words lodged in her throat. "This is _their_ fault. But I'm just happy you came."

His hands fall away from her face, his arms gathering around her as he rises midway, his face buried into the nook of her neck. "Marian, I will _always_ come for you. Nothing in the world or beyond could keep me from you."

She _does_ shatter then, her determined tears falling fervidly. One of his hands smoothes up the back of her neck, his other sliding low on her hips, careful to avoid her back, drawing _her_ into _his_ chest now. How tightly he holds her, his whispered words meant for her ears and hers only. Together, they tremble against one another. Her mended fingers curl into his thin shirt, clutching tightly as she lets out the rush of chaotic emotions and weeps.

How gently he holds her, his arm sweeping under her knees and carefully lifting her back into the bed. He lays her against the mattress, before curling up next to her. Their legs entwine, his arms winding around her hips, holding her tightly. Hawke's rests her head on his shoulder, her face buried into his shirt. Soft words fall to her ears, but she can't hear them over her sobs. Instead she takes solace from his hands, gently smoothing over her arms and hands, and from his lips, raining kisses over her cheeks, brushing away her tears.

Tomorrow, she can be strong.

* * *

_A/N: Hopefully every one is happy with the fluff! Fluff and I... well we have our differences haha, so hopefully we managed to put those aside to appease you! There's this funny looking box below that would love to hear your opinion xD Cookies and love to all! _


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

_Hawke_

* * *

Dawn drowses through the thick canopy of the forest, the silvery morning like a tranquil vision.

Hawke tips her head back, resting against the boled bark. How she misses these trees and the spirit within them. Surrounded by vitality, one need only listen to the sounds of nature. The snapping of branches off to her right - a stag about to shed his antlers. The buzzing of insects above her - a nest of bees building their honeycombs. And all around her, primrose dusts the understory, like little shreds of crimson silk. Life embraces her, as clear as the forest air and bright as the rising sun. She should come here more often, but caring for her family is quite tiresome, and challenging to find time away from.

Days she could spend in this place, simply perched on the branches and listening. Or she _could_, if not for her sister and mother. Carver can care for himself, always has, but Bethany and her mother fear the templars, and even their neighbors. If only she could live in these trees, life would likely be far simpler. But the southward land has changed color, now swarming with disease and pestilence, the writhing mass of darkspawn pervading her once hale home. War is on the horizon, King Cailan's trumpet blaring, ordering his men to arms.

Not yesterday, recruiters swept through Lothering, preaching tor numbers - strong _men_ with the ability to wield weapons. Hawke's mouth tugs with the memory of her laughter. Farmers, that's what these men are; their choice of weapons are pitchforks and backhoes, not a sword and shield. Few are learned in the talent of even holding a blade. Eyes had turned to her, and she'd simply grinned. They'd said men and Hawke had enjoyed making the recruiters sweat. Carver had signed up immediately, practically bouncing on his toes; Hawke had hung back long enough that her mentor barked a laugh and shoved her forward. Every man, woman, and child knows of her desire to join King Cailan in glorious battle, other than her mother, of course.

Long curled vellum had been handed to her, a long line at the bottom demanding she sign her name, as though ink would ensure she show to Ostagar in a fortnight. Carver had nearly ripped the parchment, his quill eagerly scratching against it.

So, she is to leave Lothering, and her mother and sister. Guilt lays thick in her gut. She has to trust they will do fine without her, trust that the Maker will guide her sister to make smart choices. Templars rarely come to Lothering, but it happens, her father lies in ashes because of such a visit. But it can be done so long as she doesn't use her magic. The war - if they cannot stamp back the darkspawn, there won't be a Thedas for Bethany to hide within.

"This is a nice place," a familiar voice rises.

Hawke jerks, nearly tumbling off the branch in her attempt to turn. "Father!" she gasps, her hands reaching for him. She stumbles forward, her fingers passing through him, the essence that creates him shimmering and wavering like a wraith.

Her brow drags down, and she studies him, noting how brightly he shines. "Demon or phantom?" her voice grows cold, the world around her brightening as she realizes she is in the Fade.

Quickly, the scene she'd been remembering dulls. It hadn't been yesterday that she'd signed up with the army, rather three years ago. The trees remain, but from beyond, the shimmering green and ochroid pasture lands take shape from the vaporous amethyst of the Fade. The sun, like a great dragon, writhes in richly spun gold, burning away the sterling dawn and heating the air until her brow beads with sweat. Time slows, the leaves stilling mid-air and the breeze frozen against her cheek. Her hands creep to her side, slowly reaching for her vagrant blades, now phasing into existence within her belt.

"Some would say both," he chuckles. "Your father."

Her eyes slit, and she draws a dagger, her fingers vacillating against the hilt. "I'm well aware of who you're imitating."

"Now, shadow," he laughs jovially. "What good will that do? That's nothing more than a figment of your imagination."

She turns her gaze down on the dagger, spinning it deftly in her hands. That may be so, but the feel of it settles her nerves. "And you? Are you a figment?"

"Oh," he sighs, somehow corporeal enough to drop his shoulder against the tree, his arms and legs crossed. He looks the picture of ease, for all the world simply a man standing in the trees, conversing with his daughter. "Of that I'm positive. But why should that mean I'm not real?"

She steals a step back, no longer afraid of falling off the branch. Should she, another will catch her, she's sure of it. The Fade shapes to their thoughts, she won't die here. "Because you're dead."

His face crumples, and he drags a hand through his hair, whipping the rogue strands about, a common trait between them. Some silent thought shadows his countenance and he turns to her, twinkling azure eyes rising in repose, a mischievous curve claiming his lips. He's the absolute reflection of her father and her heart races forward from the sight. "Quite true. As is Bethany, yet you spoke with her, did you not?"

"She was guiding me to the Maker's side." Her breath catches. Is that why he's come?

"Hush, shadow," he whispers, acknowledging her fear. "I'm not here for that."

"Then you are a demon. My father doesn't visit my dreams."

Pain sketches over his face. "I-I couldn't. You weren't ready."

"And I'm ready now?" How similar they are, she's never noticed before, from their ebony hair to their long, straight noses. It suddenly makes sense why her mother finds it difficult to look at her, the only one with dark eyes in the family.

"That's up to you," he muses. He turns and scopes the far reaching land, his fingers fiddling with a stray leaf, hovering mid air. "I used to come here, you know. With your mother. It... was my favorite place in the world. Until you were born."

"I remember," Hawke whispers, recalling the sentiment he'd repeated to her almost every day. "Your favorite place became anywhere I was."

His mouth crooks and a startling gaze turns her way. "Still is. I'm with you wherever you go, shadow. You _and_ Carver."

Tears sting her eyes and she averts her gaze. "Why are you here, father?"

His shoulders round and he turns, extending a hand toward her. His palm hovers just off her face, and both sigh, imagining that he can embrace her. Emotion surges in her soul, like a tempest, whipping up memories she'd rather remain buried. Images take shape, words spoken many eves ago, shared embraces, tears, laughter, all haunting her with former happiness.

"I know why you've come here," he says, his voice shattering the maelstrom of reflection. "This is the moment your life changed. No longer simply responsible for a family, you became responsible for a nation."

She shakes her head, swiping at tears that haven't yet fallen. "King Cailan was responsible for the nation, not me."

His chuckle is as soft as his eyes when he turns back toward the trees. "Every soldier takes on the responsibility of a nation. You protect the citizens and fend off enemies, by blood. But soldiers can put down their blades, kings can't. And you, my dear shadow, haven't put down your blade."

Her brow creases in consternation. "Are you saying I should stop helping people? Lower my blade and simply walk away?"

"Could you?" he answers her question with his own.

Hawke mulls over this, her lower lip rolling between her teeth. The faces of the countless numbers she's helped take shape in her mind's eye, along with her companions, those she calls family. "No, I can't."

He nods. "Exactly so. And that makes you more than a soldier. You will face burdens no soldier ever has. Soldiers are simply a tool used by a leader, a champion, to defend and protect. You are a champion, darling. Many challenges remain laid before your feet and you must weigh them with an open mind. Your prejudices must be put aside. The world is not simply black and white. Power begets power - all crave it. Not all templars are evil, nor are all mages good. I think you know this already."

Hawke swallows, listening intently to her father's words. Every day he astounds her with his wisdom and knowledge gained in life - death changed little. She'd thought of him much like her sage, meant to guide her toward the right choices. It seems that remains the same and her heart lifts with that realization.

"On the precipice hovers a decision you must make. I cannot tell you more than this: it is your decision to make. No other. Do not allow the minds of your companions sway you. You are the champion of the people, it must be your word, not that of a mage or a templar. This decision will shape the world around you. Choose wisely, my daughter."

"But, how will I know?" she calls, reaching again when he begins to fade away.

"Trust in yourself," are his last words before vanishing before her eyes.

The greenery surrounding her suddenly twists and pops, time stretching out before her eyes, pulling along the fabric of reality until springing back in place with a beguiling snap. The sun, clouds, and forest shimmer, rippling in time to her heartbeat. She exhales a long breath, waiting for the world to settle.

Hawke's eyes open.

Blinking, she turns her gaze up to the ceiling, spiring the carvings exquisitely chiseled into the wooden posts. Heat presses into her cheek, the rhythmic pounding of a heart startling her. Tilting her head back, her eyes trail the length of Anders' chest, settling on his smooth face. Lost to the fade, he looks so peaceful, his hair settling around his jaw. Sometime throughout the night, he unbound it and Hawke's mouth tugs into a smile at the sight. She could lay here all day, simply watching the rise and fall of his chest.

Her mouth feels woolen and her head thick and heavy. The tears spent the night before have worn her out and her body sags with exhaustion. A little more sleep certainly won't hurt.

She can't remember dropping off into the Fade, yet the two are wound tightly around one another, as though afraid the other might disappear. Resigned, Hawke settles back into the nook on his arm, her fingers curling into his rumpled shirt, playing with the fine dusting of chest hair poking through the loose neckline.

"How do you feel?"

Hawke manages at the last second to control her body before jerking Anders awake. Hoping not to jar him, she rolls onto her side, her eyes locking with Akarra's. Her cousin sits in the nearest chair, mortar and pestle balanced in her lap as she soundlessly grinds herbs. Just how long has she been there, watching them sleep? Annoyance pricks at her insides, but Hawke is simply too exhausted to care. Let them watch, at least then, she knows they are safe.

"I thought I might take a look at your back while he sleeps," Akarra murmurs, relinquishing the pestle for a quick moment to brush the long dark locks back over her shoulder.

"You.. want to take a look at my wounds?" Hawke mumbles, her words a bit clumsy. When last they'd spoken, Akarra hadn't been secretive of her dislike toward Hawke. Not that Hawke had been either. Cousins or not, the two do not know each other and come from entirely different upbringings. Whatever affinity her mother wants them to find, it won't easily be come by.

Her cousin offers a small smile and returns back to the mixture. "Anders isn't the only healer, especially since he's the one that mentored me in the tower."

Hawke stares mutely, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Her stomach tightens; it's hard to accept that these two have such a history together, growing up side by side, learning their magic, and teaching each other. It isn't that she fears any feelings between them, it's as clear as the day to her that Anders loves her, but there's still a history she can't touch.

"But it isn't just that," Akarra whispers, nibbling on her lower lip as she peers up from her dark lashes. The effect is instantaneous and Hawke suddenly understands what her companions feel when she pulls that same trick on them. "I may have... judged you harshly when we first met."

Hawke waits, her head resting against Anders' arm, fingers gently running through his. Even in his sleep, his hand tightens around hers, his arms drawing around her hips. She can't help but smile when he doesn't pull her close, aware of her injuries. There's very little pain, thanks to his magic, yet he remains vigilant. Certainly, she's done something right in a former life to be gifted someone such as him.

"I was..." Akarra shakes her head, sighing as her shoulders slump. "It doesn't matter. When you lot swept in, well it was a lot to take in at once. Please try to see it from my point of view. I didn't know Anders lived here, and I certainly didn't know he'd taken a spirit into himself."

Hawke nods, the skin pulling tight across her neck. Instinctively, she reaches to rub out the tension, her fingers startling at the feel of a closed ridge spiraling over her shoulder, and curling around her collarbone, cleaving her former arrow tip scar in two. Akarra's face crumbles and she returns to her task with a vengeance.

"Truth be told, I came to Kirkwall searching for you-"

"_Me?_" Hawke whispers, her fingers stilling against her skin. "Whyever would you come looking for me?"

Akarra's laugh is low and gentle. "When I escaped the tower, I had nowhere to go, and no family to turn to. It took a while to trace my lineage, but eventually I learned of your family. The histories speak of our family history, and I learned that your mother married a man named Hawke. It was the final disgrace for our family. I thought..." she huffs under her breath, pushing her hair back with a little more enthusiasm. "I thought that if I was ever to find family, it would be you. But to see you... _slaughter_ that man with little thought given..."

Hawke's jaw clenches. "That man-"

"Murdered your father, I know. At first, I don't think I understood what that meant to you. I never knew my father. But I remember abandoning Irving in Ferelden. I-I don't even know if he still lives - it burns every day when I think about that. I think..." she pauses again, rubbing gently at her brow, before continuing in a broken voice. "I think I might have done the same, had I been in your position."

Hawke releases a quick breath, reclining into Anders' chest. The tension running down his arm is quite telling that he's awake and listening. But she doesn't bring this to light, not yet. If he wants to pretend to sleep, the choice is his. His fingers flex against her hip, gripping her tightly enough to hold her in place.

"If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough," she continues. "But you also gave yourself to the templars in his stead." Hawke knows she is referring to Anders. "Not once did you think to offer him up. I didn't know the templars here are so... well, seeing you now, in this condition, I realize I am in no position to judge anyone. These are not the templars that I know."

_Not all templars are evil, nor are all mages good._ Her father's words breeze through her mind.

"So," she smiles again, her face smoothing and brightening with an internal light that youthens her. "Long story short, yes, I would like to help you. Think you can move without waking him?"

"He's already awake, the big lug," Hawke teases in a watery voice before gently nudging him with an elbow.

"Am not," he mumbles, wrapping his arms around her middle and burying his face into the crook of her shoulder.

"Sure sound awake to me," Akarra sighs.

"How anyone can sleep with you two chattering away -"

Hawke bumps his hip once more. "Be nice."

Sighing, he draws away from her before sliding off the bed and stretching out his muscles. A golden sheet of wavy hair falls around his face, mussed from his night's rest. Hawke's fingers twitch with the urge to run through the silken strands, to use them as the anchor to draw him down until his body covers her. The sleep did him good, his face now flush and full of light - he looks much like the man she'd met in the trees all those years ago. Turning, his eyes drop down on her, a grimace twisting his lips.

"That attractive, hey?" Hawke murmurs, running a hand through her tousled hair. She can't imagine she looks as delicious as him, not covered in scarlet bandages.

He rolls his eyes and drops down over the bed, covering her mouth with his, fingers tracing the edge of her bandages. "You know how beautiful you are, love. Nothing will ever change that," he murmurs under his breath. "But... I need to go to the clinic. I haven't been back since you were taken."

She schools her face, hoping her disappointment doesn't show. "Why does that warrant a scowl?" she asks instead.

A low laugh passes from his lips before he pulls his hair back from his face and binds it. "I don't want to leave you."

Hawke's heart soars, her cheeks flushing with heat.

"I'll go," Akarra chimes. "You two are making me a little nauseated, anyway."

Anders straightens, his gaze darting to her. "You would go to the clinic in my stead?"

She nods and stands, placing the mortar and pestle on the small table next to the bed. "Gives me a chance to stretch my legs and flex a bit of magic. If you like, I can take care of your patients until you are ready to return."

Both Hawke and Anders fall mute, staring at the young woman before them.

"Akarra," Anders chuckles. "I don't think you understand just what you're offering to undertake-"

"Hush," she smiles. "Let me do this for you two. As a thanks to you, Hawke, for protecting him. It makes me happy to see you with someone, Anders." Her eyes lift to his, her smile blossoming. "And not just humping them into-"

Anders coughs loudly, his eyes swiveling between the two cousins, a chagrined blush flushing his cheeks. "Uh, right. The clinic is in Darktown, you really shouldn't go there alone. Aveline warned that the templars might still be raiding."

Her head dips, her laugh hidden by her palm. "I'm sure I can convince a strong templar to escort me."

"Strong templar?" Hawke repeats, turning wide eyes back to Anders, locking Akarra's former comment away for later questioning.

He shrugs, his scarlet face turned away from hers.

"Alistair!" Akarra scoffs. "Honestly, you two."

_That_ templar. Right.

"Thank you," Anders says, his voice warm with appreciation. "This means a lot to me."

"I know," Akarra chuckles. "I'll see you two soon."

The door clicks softly behind her and Hawke turns her gaze back to Anders, watching with mild amusement as he plucks at his rumpled shirt. "Humping them into what?" she asks, her head tilting with curiosity.

Anders chokes on his breath, his steps echoing in the room as he crosses to where Akarra sat, reaching for the salve she'd been preparing. "Um, I think we should change your bandages."

"Sure," Hawke offers with a bright smile, the first she's felt in almost a week - it's refreshing. "And while we do that, you can tell me all about these ladies you humped into..."

* * *

Hawke can't sleep.

It has little to do with her wounds, and much her father's words. They echo over and over, drowning out the other noises within the estate. Anders hasn't let anyone visit yet, for fear of exhausting her, but she can hear them, all downstairs talking amongst each other to the gentle sound of music. Or, she could, until her father's voice rose.

Even he'd pointed out that they hover on the brink of change. The witch had done much the same, and Hawke has sensed much the same. The world is hurtling into chaos, clinging to the edge by its very fingertips. One slip and it's down into the deep, a chasm of madness and darkness, just waiting to devour them all. The universe has teeth and is not afraid to use them.

What she fears is this hovering choice. The world will be shaped by it; never has she wanted such power over something. If she chooses wrong, what then? Will the entire world suffer for her miscalculations? The way her father made it sound - as though it would have something to do with the mages and templars. No surprise there - everything these days has to do with them.

Silence.

Her thoughts quiet, her father's voice vanishing, and for a moment all she hears is Anders' deep, slumbering breaths. His fingers twitch against her side in an unconscious attempt to hold her close, and as much as she would love to sink into his embrace, a strange thumping echoes beyond her bedroom door - _thump, thump, thump_.

Voices lift in a crescendo, the harmoniously lilting music pausing. From here, she listens as heavy steps move across the floor, shuffling from one end of the room to the other. Her gaze darts to the picturesque window, the silvered moon hanging in the ebony sky, shining amongst the silent stars. A visitor - at this time of night?

Slowly, she rises from Anders' side, grasping at the finery deposited next to her bed. Her lips twist and she drops the scanty garments before moving to her shrank. The doors ease open quietly.

There's not much within the cavernous depths but she manages to fish out a fresh pair of leggings. Her last pair had been discarded, stained with a layer of blood and grime. A quick scan and she dons Anders loose fitting top, her own having been destroyed by the templars, torn from her body. His dips a fair bit lower than she likes, but for now it serves the purpose, it covers by far more than her finery does and thats all that matters, and is loose against her wounds.

Resting at the bottom of the shrank are a pair of decrepit boots she'd brought from Lothering. Staring down at the worn toes and beaten heels, she shrugs and pulls them on, careful of her movements, lacing them up to her thighs. Anders' magic keeps the pain from stealing her senses, but she feels the tight skin pulling as it heals. They'd opted to leave the bandages off for the night, allowing her back a chance to breath. The last gander they'd taken, her wounds have stopped bleeding, a nice change, but the last thing she wants is to open them again.

With one last glance at Anders, she gently crooks the door open and slides through the narrow slip, drawing it closed with a soft click. He needs the rest as much as she; always overworking himself with the clinic and worrying for her.

"My apologies, Ser Cullen, but _Lady_ Hawke is seeing no one at the moment," Aveline's voice reverberates through the rafters in a haunting echo. "I'm sure you can understand."

"Guard Captain, it is imperative that I speak with-"

"I assure you," Aveline impedes him, reaching for the pommel of her blade. "Whatever you feel is necessary to speak with her about, you may say to us."

"I understand your concerns, but this is a matter that I must speak with Hawke about," Cullen presses as he folds his hands before his waist with respect.

A flicker of light draws Hawke's eye to her mother, slipping through a different door, her hand raised to her mouth to hide her laughter. She turns, and jerks to a stop at the sight of the silver armored man standing in the doorway, her breath catching. Not one of them has taken notice of Hawke, perched like a bird atop the upper reaches, watching the proceedings with a careful eye.

Her mother's feet slap against the marble floor as she stalks across it, her movements as quick and dangerous as a wild animal.

"You are _not_ welcome in my house," she hisses, her face transforming into something as equally beautiful as it is terrifying. "After what you did to my daughter, you think you can simply walk through my door and -"

"Mistress, please," Cullen prostrates himself, his hands rising in a prayer to his chest. "I have come for other reasons than the... events that took place in the Gallows-"

"Events!" Leandra fires up. "You meant to hang my daughter! _Get out of my house!_"

The door behind him swings open, lamplight pouring in from the darkened streets. Two figures rush into their foyer, stamping their feet on the floor as they unhook their cloaks. From her position, Hawke can't make out their faces, but a very distinct, and effeminate, gasp flutes through the sitting room. Quite the party developing in her home in the dark of night.

"_You!_" Cullen whispers.

A templar and a mage standing in her sitting room seems unhealthy - though which is the one in trouble, Hawke doesn't know just yet. Either way, she feels the need to protect Akarra, from whatever threat this templar is to her. She takes to the stairs, her hand gliding smoothly along the planate banister, her steps silent on the marble. Having never taken these stairs of her own accord, she's careful, keeping a watchful eyes on them and the unfolding events

Merrill is the first to notice her descent, her starry gaze as bright as the moon. A soft breath passes her lips and Isabela turns, followed quickly by Varric. Soon, each of her companions are watching Hawke, their faces grim as she makes her way toward Cullen.

The templar stands with his back to her, still staring at Akarra. In the faint light of the foyer, her onyx hair shines, but it's her face that steals Hawke's breath, passionless and solemn. The woman has become like stone, hardened both within and out. The two hold one another's gazes, the silky luster of her topaz to his agate. The tension they carry hums over Hawke's skin and with a shiver, she straightens her shoulders and steps between them, her hands balled on her hips as she faces him.

A strong and overly warm hand seals around Hawke's shoulder, as though offering silent support. With Alistair at her back, Hawke knows she can face him. Though Cullen hadn't been the one to lift a hand against her, the thread of fear still wavers within her.

The Knight-Captain jerks, his eyes snapping down to Hawke's, color staining his cheeks. "Serah Hawke," he grumbles, before his gaze flicks back over her head, likely attaching to Akarra.

Not for the first time, Hawke begrudges her height. After a short struggle to stretch a few more inches, she stalks past him, her commanding voice drawing him around to face her companions. "I thought we agreed you would address me as Hawke?" she asks in a faintly heated voice. "After all, you did try to kill me. That makes us acquaintances, just not the friendly sort."

The air in the room thickens. As one, her friends reach for their weapons, and Hawke watches as she continues her circuit, her feet thumping against the floor to the beat of Isabela's dagger striking against her thigh. Fenris caresses his pommel, his bands flushing with lambent light as he hungrily watches the templar. Varric settles back into the armchair, Bianca held lovingly in his hands as he cocks her quietly. The distinct sound of Aveline's blade being drawn from her scabbard echoes through the room, and viridian light swells over Merrill's hands; all preparing for the silent signal to attack.

"Please, Serah," Cullen pleads. "I have come for a different reason -" his words die in his throat, his gaze narrowing on her chest. If it had been anyone other than a templar, Hawke might have accused him of lechery - perhaps the whispered rumors of the Order are correct in that. But it isn't her breast he's staring at, not entirely. It's the vibrant spire of scars - the Sword of Mercy cut from her flesh.

"Do you like it?" she growls, her hand rising when Varric jerks to his feet with Bianca cocked and aimed at the templar's head. She hasn't yet graced a mirror, but she can imagine how it looks - about as charming as the nest of weals scored into her back.

He drags a gauntleted hand across his brow, his shoulders rounding in defeat. "Perhaps we should speak in private serah, before things escalate."

She scoffs, her lips twisting. The order of execution hovers on the edge of her tongue, held back only by the vexing voice of her father, whispering madly in her ear. Not all templars are evil, not all mages are good. Cullen has shown his calibre; she remembers how his face twisted in horror and disbelief when he'd laid eyes upon her outside the Gallows dungeons. She swallows the decree, choking on the bitterness, and dips her head in acquiescence. How convenient that her father's warning comes the same night the Knight-Captain knocks on her door.

"Hawke-" Varric whispers, his hand grazing against her arm. "Don't you think one of us should go with you?"

She steals a glance to Cullen, the poor man looking fagged and sallow. Bruises deepen under his eyes, his mouth pressing into a tight slash. Something has the templar's panties in a knot.

"It's all right," she offers her friend a soft smile, feeling as though an entire lifetime has passed since she last saw him. She pats his hand, the two locking eyes.

With a heavy sigh, Varric nods and lowers back into the armchair, looking like nothing more than a friendly dwarf, but Hawke knows, one word and Bianca would drink deeply of the templar's blood. "A word of caution, Dimples," Varric murmurs. "If we hear one cry from Hawke, you aren't walking out of here tonight."

The Knight-Captain pauses, his widened eyes flitting around the entire room before he dips his head and gestures Hawke onward.

Spinning on her heel, she leads him through the door her mother came out of, noting only at the last moment the overly large kitchen. Rocking to a stop, Cullen slams into her back, muttering a soft apology as he staggers back. Pain slides like a dagger through her back and a faint groan spills from her lips as she teeters, her fingers locking onto the counter for balance as the waves of agony pass.

Muttered apologies rise through the room and gentle hands grasp her elbows, leading her over to the nearest stool. Hawke shudders, drawing out of his grasp, her stomach twisting from the feel of his touch. It feels like insects crawling under her skin and she struggles to keep silent, for fear of her companion's overreacting.

"Forgive me," he whispers. "I-I was clumsy, I should have watched where I-"

She waves him down and rests her arms against a small circular table. The pain will fade. "What can I do for you Knight-Captain?"

He winces, his head dropping forward. He drags his fingers across the veneer top, drawing invisible designs that Hawke can't make out. Silence settles between them like a thick blanket and eventually she has to resort of a sharp sigh.

"First, I want to apologize," he stutters. "Had I known-" his eyes lift to her chest again.

A brief moment of insecurity chokes her throat and she battles back the urge to knot the ties together. She won't hide - this is proof of what the templar's are capable of. "Now you do," she murmurs, her voice suffocating with emotion. "You can make changes," she offers, struggling like mad to find a balance. Cullen hadn't been the one to harm her, it would not do for her to hold him responsible.

"I am trying, serah, believe me. But the men..." he trails off, the light banding around his curled ashen hair when he shakes his head. "That is neither here nor there. I pray you believe me when I say I am trying. I have come for an entirely different reason, though."

"Oh?"

He curves over the table, eyes shining with translucent light. "The mages chant your name like a mantra," he whispers under his breath. "They trust you - I don't know why." He jerks back up, his mouth moving soundlessly before he finds his words again. "That's not to say you aren't trustworthy - I simply mean I don't know why they've chosen you as their symbol of hope."

Hawke's eyes fly wide. Neither does she.

"Whatever you have done, you've become a beacon for them. They believe you will bring the Order crashing to its knees."

She battles with her internal desire to do just that, her father's words echoing once more.

"We've had a group of rogue mages escape our clutches-"

Her eyes sharpen; how apt a word to use.

"-from Starkhaven. I've heard you've been in contact with the prince there, that you are looking into the murder of his family."

"My," Hawke whispers. "Word sure does travel fast."

The templar before her offers a small smile, his fingers rubbing at his eyes. Exhaustion leaks from his bones, his body bowing under the strength of it. "The people can't seem to speak of anything else. The Fereldan refugee to Kirkwall noble - rags to riches - overnight."

She hums under her breath, slanting back in the chair, careful of how she leans. "They never seem to take into consideration the blood, sweat, and tears put into such a thing."

"No, serah, they don't," he nods slowly. "I was hoping - I _am_ hoping - that perhaps I can encourage you to assist us in this matter. Perhaps if you go, there will be little need for bloodshed."

She ponders his words, wondering if there is a separate purpose behind this. "These are Sebastian's mages," she informs him, aware of the flash of intrigue skittering over his face like lightning at the use of the prince's first name. Good - let them think she has connections. "Should they not be returned to him?"

His fingers drum against the table, his pale brow snapping down over his eyes. "The Starkhaven tower has burned to the ground. I would gladly give them back to their leader, only there's nowhere for them to go. No, serah, I fear they must remain in Kirkwall until such a time when they can be returned."

"And you want me to just locate them and convince them to tramp merrily back to the Gallows?"

His face pinches into a heavy knot, fingers digging into his eyes. "I understand your reservations-"

"Do you?" she laughs. "Because for a moment there, it sounded as though you were asking I serve the templars and help return a band of apostates so that they can, what, return to their lives in shackles?"

"You must understand that apostates are dangerous-"

Hawke jerks, her eyes snapping with azure light. "Careful, Knight-Captain," she warns him. "_Many_ of those in my life were apostates. They were no danger to anyone and your Order struck them down like they were darkspawn."

Cullen groans and drops his head down into his hands. "You must try and see things from our point of view as well, Hawke. Not all mages are as decent as the ones you appear to surround yourself with."

_Nor are all mages good._

She swallows. Is this what her father had been hinting toward? Is this her decision, right here and now? Surely, it can't be that soon? And how would deciding whether or not to help the Starkhaven mages shape the world around her?

"I am asking for your assistance in this matter, serah. I have a templar - one of _mine_ -" he emphasizes with a spearing glance, "standing guard outside the cave we have tracked them to. He has been instructed to do nothing but hold them there until you arrive."

Her jaw sets and she expels a long breath. How presumptuous of them.

"I am asking for your help to save their lives," he begs. "To stop this before more blood spills. And to go before Meredith's people get wind of this and hunt these mages themselves." _Meredith's people._ Karras is one of them, and she can't help but wonder if he will make an appearance. Surely the Maker wouldn't be so kind as to hand her the templar on a silvered platter... would he?

Hawke ponders in silence for a moment. Sebastian had asked her to look into this and she knows she will keep her word to him. Beyond that, she understands Cullen's desperation. Even she grows tired of the bloodshed. She knows from his pinning stare that he expects her to convince them to return to the circle. But she's just not sure if that's something she can do. These people simply want a chance at life. Were it Anders, she can't imagine condemning him back to the circle, not after hearing the stories of all he'd been submitted to there, not after all she's been submitted to. Perhaps there is another way, though. A way to free these mages without there being any death.

She schools her face, her fingers running over her aged, yet newly cleaved, scar embedded into her collarbone. "Very well, Cullen," she says with a nod. "I will help you in this."

"Thank you, Hawke," he breathes a sigh of relief before turning a charming smile her way. "Now I simply have to find a way out of your estate with my own life intact."

* * *

_A/N: Updated a bit early again! WooHoo! As per normal, thank you to everyone :D I'll be getting to those singular responses right away here, I just wanted to get something up for you guys. So, ya! Lemme know what you think! Hopefully everyone is as excited as I am for the upcoming chapter :D Side note: Things are going to be taking quite a bit differently than the game, so be prepared for that as well._

_Secondary Side Note: Eve Hawke has updated the 2nd chap to Of Flames and Blades - **amazing** chapter, I can't even begin to gush enough over this! It is so amazing to see this world from a separate perspective. So this chap revolves around the battle of Ostagar and seriously you should check it out, it's just a beautiful piece of literature._

_Third Side Note: Olivegbg has composed a remarkable piece of art for Hawke and Anders of this story - it's just breathtaking! olivegbg dot deviantart dot com/gallery/#/d5dfh7r You would do yourself a disservice not to look at this. The two look so perfect together. Please let me know if the link doesn't work *grumbles at ff* and I will send you it in a PM. Either that or just google Olivegbg on deviantart. The piece is called Shadows and Feather. There's a secondary one as well of just Anders. Go, enjoy! And let me know what you think of this chap!_


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

_Hawke_

* * *

Voices thunder through the kitchen, her companion's deafening questions taking to the air like lightning, snapping and crackling with heated energy. And how can they not? For days, Anders kept her hidden safely within the shelter of his arms, offering healing, protection, and comfort - isolated from the world, eagerly devouring every drop of time. Not that she regrets one moment spent in his arms. A dream, that's what they'd been given, a chance to step away from the world and simply be Anders and Hawke - a gift. Here, there are no templars hunting him, nor torturing her. Here, they needn't fight for their survival with every breath. Here, they can be as they want - happy, warm, and loved. But as much as she longs for such a thing, it is not meant to be, for fantasy has taken wing and abandoned her to reality.

Straightening her shoulders, Hawke curves back in her chair and lays her arms upon the smooth patina. Certainly, her companions deserve answers after all they went through to snatch her away from death's door and their patience while she'd been healing is nothing short of miraculous. But there are far too many voices, all rising up in a cacophony of chaos.

"Enough," a firm voice embraces them. As one, faces rise, snapping up to the Guard-Captain, still wrapped in the terra folds of her armor.

A silent sigh falls from Hawke's lips as her quivering fingers drag through her hair; the templar has left her a touch shakier than she'd anticipated. As she shivers at the remembered image of the Sword of Mercy emblazoned upon his breastpiece, she nips at her lower lip, her eyes dropping down to the loose ties of Anders' shirt. Wrapped in the soft cotton, the haunting memory flashes through her mind. The scars are nothing more than a ridged serpentine of disfigured skin, nothing more than a recollection of past events. Yet, her skin fevers and her chest inflames with phantom pains, all as her heart thumps madly beneath her breast.

Silent as ever, she watches as Aveline pushes into the room, her heavy armored boots hammering against the gleaming floor. "I will not have you - _any of you_ - pester her." Olive eyes flit over their group of misfits as she reaches for a small pot to boil water in.

Pestering her is one thing, but even Hawke can't deny they deserve answers. One by one, they turn back to her, their mouths still, but their eyes pleading. Blood drains from her cheeks and she ducks her head, realizing the time has come to share all that occurred. Sweeping away the beaded sweat clinging to her brow, she contemplates the dozen or so questions that have carelessly been thrown at her. "It's all right," Hawke whispers, her voice lost within her tight throat.

And so the story pours from her lips.

How easy the words come, like water flowing over stone. Once they start, she can't seem to find a stopping point, and she details things she'd intended to keep to herself, thoughts and moments in time that she never wants another to know. Doubtless they see how painful it is for her to recount every agonizing lash, every strike of steel, every drop of spilled blood. She unveils her disquiet and failing convictions. By the time her words run dry, Merrill is not the only one in tears, though Hawke's cheeks remain untouched. Even Varric, as he clutches at his graphite, has to swipe away small splotches of dampness from his curling vellum. Things she hasn't even braved telling Anders spill from her mouth, weaving a story that feels as though it barely scratches the surface. Crackling air heats the back of her neck and Hawke steals a glance over the curve of her shoulder to find her mage leaning against the doorjamb, shirtless and barefoot, eyes snapping with azure light.

Her story fades into oblivion, the sight of him padding toward her swelling her heart. Crossing the short distance, he presses against her hip, his lips burying into her hair. His warm palm cradles her cheek and with a sigh, she presses into it, sinking into his offered warmth and comfort. From behind closed eyes, she can see the moment his hand flickers with lambent light, the heated glow easing the tension forming between her shoulders. Pain had crept up on her unknowingly throughout the telling of her story, but it vanishes now in the wake of his soothing touch. Shifting in the chair, she releases a faint moan, relishing in the mind-numbing release with a grateful smile stealing her mouth.

How quickly Isabela takes the reins, leading the conversation down the path of their daring rescue. Talk of the Mage Underground surfaces and Hawke jerks away from his touch, unable to contain her reaction. _The Mage Underground_. Meredith's heated demands for knowledge of such an organization rings through her ears, the crack of the whip echoing with her every denial of such information. Beneath her nose the entire time - Hawke suffers a deep breath, trying not to let this realization darken her thoughts further. Whether she'd known or not, it wouldn't have changed a thing, she would never give Anders up to those bastards. But at the time, it would have been nice to understand what she'd been taking the lashes for. Freeing circle mages, of course Meredith would be incensed.

A sudden thought, as painful as the templar's silver-tipped blade digging under her flesh. It's like nothing she's ever felt, this heated flash shooting straight into her heart. After all they've gone through together - darkspawn, Cousland, bandits - he doesn't trust her enough to tell her about this underground.

Magic, as he is, he reads her mood quicker than it can settle over her. With narrowed eyes, he watches, unable to read her mind, yet clearly understanding that something has shifted. Hawke's own gaze slits, her lips thinning with displeasure. Secrets are dangerous, simply a means for the enemy to whittle away at them, to break bonds forged in blood and love. But it isn't only that, it's the lack of trust that eats away at her nerves.

"What did Dimples want?" Varric's gruff voice interrupts their silent conversation.

Wiping her face clean of all emotion, she turns back toward her companions with a slight sigh. Of course the conversation would swing back around to the templar.

"Dimples?" Anders repeats, his hand dropping back to his side.

"Cullen," Alistair offers as he steps up to the table, reaching for the small teacups that Aveline is pulling out of the cupboard. The tea is next, the leaves placed artlessly upon a small plate for everyone to take.

A flood of beryl light consumes the kitchen and without hesitation, Hawke leans away from Anders, her eyes burning into Varric's across the room. The dwarf knows all, it seems unlikely that he doesn't know about the underground. Another of her friends that apparently thought it best to keep such information from her.

Silence as deep as death falls over the kitchen, each of her companions sharing in awkward glances as they fight not to take notice of the brightly glowing mage at her back. Only once before has she seen him lit in such a way while half clothed, yet the sight still strickens her. Cracks spire down his torso, his skin flushed and pulsing with the essence of the Fade. Silvered fingers tense against the wooded table top, the grains popping from the strain of his grip. When Hawke does dare a glance, her chest hitches at the sight of muscles leaping in his jaw. The coiled chords of his neck strain against the tension in his shoulders, but it's the fury sweeping over his face that leaves her breathless.

Stuttered words leave her mouth as she struggles to pull her gaze from him and return to Varric's question. "He... requested my assistance with a very delicate matter-"

The kitchen explodes into a tumultuous uproar. It matters little which way Hawke looks, one of her friends is pacing a fine path, darting around the kitchen, jabbing fingers at one another, all while expletives and condemnations fill the air. Arguments arise, more than one absolutely insistent that Hawke partake in certain tasks that would render the Knight-Captain unable to walk. Anger wipes clean their tear-stained faces until eventually they turn toward her once more, all awaiting answers. The only one to hold still is pressed into her back, though his wraithlike fingers dig into her arms, gripping her tightly.

"Be calm!" Aveline calls through the room, hands held up in a silent prayer, as though the gesture will help them find such a thing.

Hawke picks at the grains in the wood, knowing were her mother in the room, she'd slap at Hawke's hands and tsk under her breath. Sighing, she straightens, her fingers rising to rub the weal stretched over her shoulder. It aches, all of it. Regardless of Anders' magic, the bone-weary throbbing returns twice-fold, likely from her constant fidgeting. "The mages Sebastian inquired after have been located. Currently, they are being held in a cave by a templar Cullen trusts. He asked that I seek them out with the hope that I can put the matter to rest with little bloodshed."

Anders snorts, still the only sound to fall past his lips, though from the corner of her eye, she can see him shaking his head back and forth, his voided eyes flashing with unspent energy.

"Look," she grumbles, her mood growing more sour by the moment. "I told Sebastian I would do this for him. And the Harimann's need to be looked into as well. It's best that we square everything away with him." Her brow snaps down as she thinks on the men she owes. "The viscount as well, I suppose. He is the reason, after all, that you could get me out of the Gallows."

"Well now, slow down, sweet thing," Isabela croons, her hip hitching atop the table as her sultry voice rises. "We weren't entirely sure how long you'd be out of the game. So while you've been resting, in the arms of your rather delicious lover I might add, a few of us... took it upon ourselves to help out."

Hawke steals another glance at Anders, silently wondering just what it will take to return that spirit to the depths of the Fade once and for all. Surely there must be something in the Amell bloodline that attracts apostates. The image of her father takes shape in her mind and she can't help but wonder what he would think of Anders. Always warning her against apostates, she can't imagine he'd be pleased with her choice. Not that it matters. Nothing could ever convince her to give him up, regardless of what secrets he might keep from her.

The realization rounds her shoulders and she pulls her eyes away from the magnificent sight of him all aglow, painting light across the kitchen walls, and back to her friends. It's the wily twist of their lips and the light flashing in their eyes that forces her to rethink on all Isabela just said.

_Took it upon themselves to help out_ - "What does that mean?"

"The Harimann's are dead-" Varric chirps.

"Maker, I'm not hearing this," Aveline groans.

"-and the Viscount's little spitfire is back in the Keep where he belongs."

"We'll talk about payment later," Isabela winks, slinging a gentle arm around Hawke's neck. "For now, think of it as a welcome home gift."

Hawke's mouth moves soundlessly as she struggles to find her words. While resting, her friends had been searching for the viscount's son and the Harimann's as well. She hadn't even been given the chance to inform them of the last missive received from Sebastian - the templars had come too soon. Yet, they must have found it and taken the initiative to deal with these issues themselves, a gift to her, as a means to spend time with Anders.

Gratitude's sweet sapor coats her tongue, her eyes welling with warm tears. Never has anyone done anything of the like for her. So accustomed to always being the one to care for those in her life, the notion of _them_ caring for _her _steals her breath.

Quickly blinking back the tears, she clears her throat and straightens in her chair. "Thank you," she murmurs, wiping away the evidence before any can witness her odd emotional state.

An unknown silent signal sweeps through the kitchen and one by one her companions fidget before finally passing through the door, returning to the main room. Alone, Hawke's gaze tracks Anders as he slowly rounds the table and takes the seat Cullen had filled. Aimless hands run through his loose hair, drawing it back from a face of sharp lines and a grimly pressed mouth. Trouble hovers on the horizon, the scent of it fills the room, mingling with his own unique fragrance. He may look the epitome of calm and collected, but the fact that his body is still flush with the power of the Fade speaks louder than anything he might think to say.

"Marian-"

Ah, her given name, a word she has come to treasure from him. Too few in her life have addressed her as such - even her father had given her a pet name. But to her hear her name, rolling off his tongue in his honeyed voice, she shivers, her lids closing as she savors the sound. It matters little that neither is pleased with the other in this moment, he could growl her name and she'd still melt.

"- you are_ not_ doing this." His words are like the templar's whip, sharply cutting through the air between them.

How quickly her face wipes clean, the given ecstasy at hearing her name dulling with displeasure. Years have passed since anyone has dared to speak to her in such a fashion. In fact, the last face that comes to mind is Cousland, all those years ago at Ostagar. Ignoring the misery spreading through her back, Hawke leans over the table, her fingers threading together. "Is that so?" she breathes, her anger checked by her forced calm.

Light flows through the kitchen, his eyes as pinched as his lips as he struggles to maintain control. "Marian, I won't have this. You will _not_ aid the templars -"

"What's the Mage Underground?" she impedes him, daring to turn the tables.

For a moment the glow fades with the shock of her question, his eyes flashing open. The void diminishes until only the amber remains. "What?"

"You heard me," she states as clear as day, her placid words a direct opposition to her emotions. "I want to know."

A pregnant silence passes between them until finally he shakes his head, golden strands of hair settling about his face. "We aren't talking about the underground, we're talking about -"

"How you're trying to order me around?" she finishes his sentence, though she's quite positive those aren't the words he would have opted to use.

His gaze darts back to hers, brow snapping down as he watches closely. Hawke forces a fake grin, but her eyes speak the truth about the storm toiling within. Three months since they'd first acknowledged the relationship they possess, and it seems their first fight has come upon them.

"I'm not trying to order -"

"_You are not doing this, you will not aid the templars_," she repeats. "Definitely sounds like ordering to me. What is the Mage Underground?"

His face, tempered like steel, turns to her, anger flaring through his eyes. "Why does that _matter_ right now? We're talking about the templars, not-"

"This little faction of yours that's been breaking mages out of the circle?"

A flurry of frustration darkens his countenance and slamming his hands down onto the table, he darts to his feet, cursing under his breath. "_Andraste's ass_, woman, would you let me finish a sentence?"

"By all means," she gestures, her hands rising to cup her shoulders once more. Maker, but a bath would be nice, to calm the tense muscles coiling in her back. Secondary, though, to what is happening here. "Tell me _all_ about how I underwent these lashings for information about _your_ little network that you didn't trust me enough to know about."

Anders winces and tears through the kitchen, the slapping of his bare feet against the floor the only sound beyond his shallow breathing. Every second revolution, the maledictions start up again, cursing the Order to the void and back. On his fifth lap, there's something different in his face, something that loosens the knot of anger in Hawke's stomach - pain. His face crumples with it, his hands pressing down onto the counter as he drops his head forward, a curtain of golden hair shielding his face. The light flares with his every breath, the air cracking and heating from his expenditure of magic. Doubtful he even realizes the fire licking up his chest, or the chilled air surrounding her.

"Anders," she whispers, her aching arm rising as a snowflake swirls down to her palm. Snow is quite common in Ferelden, though the winter months here have come and gone without. But never has she seen it fall from her ceiling. It dusts the table and floor, a thin layer melting in her hair.

At the sound of her voice, he looks up, but it isn't anger written into his eyes, not in the least. It's agony, and fear, and so many more emotions that she can't name, not at the sight of it all cascading over his face. The air falls quiet, the snow vanishing as quickly as the fire burns out on his chest.

Her chair skids across the floor as she rises and crosses the distance between them. Cupping his cheeks, she offers a faint smile and draws him down until his brow rests against hers. He breaks and his arms wind around her waist, lifting and drawing her into his chest until his head settles into the nook of her shoulder. Hovering on her tiptoes, she drags her fingers through his silken hair.

"We'll be careful," she promises him. "It shouldn't be a difficult task. Cullen said Meredith's people haven't even been alerted yet. It will be simple. Go in, sort out how to handle the situation, and return home."

"You aren't well enough for this," he whispers his argument, his words weak, as though he knows she intends to do this with or without his blessing.

"I'll come straight home and back into bed," she compromises, silently adding the idea of him tucked in next to her. Nothing wrong with that image at all.

His sigh is so broken, but finally he nods as his fingers splay over her back. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his breath ghosting along the column of her neck. "I didn't mean... I just - Marian, I can't lose you."

"You're not going to lose me," she promises as her hand cups his neck.

Slowly, he pulls back, his face a grim mask. "I already did. It's only because of Cullen that you're standing here with me. I... I froze, seeing you," his voice chokes and he drops his head back into her neck, careful of her wounds. "You were dangling at the end of the rope and I-I froze. If not for him, you would have -"

"Shh," she whispers, hoping to force the unbidden memory from her mind. Even now, she can feel the rope tight against her neck, pulling and straining against it. How she'd choked on her air, struggled against her own weight, helpless, hopeless... _Done for_ had been all she could think, Anders' face flashing before her eyes one last time before Bethany actually took her to the Maker's side. She hadn't known it was Cullen that had saved her life, and her opinion of the man shifts. Perhaps her father is right - not all templars are evil.

"Please don't do this," be begs, attempting once more to turn her thoughts from this. His arms tighten around her, fingers deepening into her hips. "I didn't tell you about the Mage Underground to keep you safe. I thought... I thought if you didn't know, they couldn't hurt you trying to get the information from you. I didn't realize - I didn't _know_, I - Hawke, don't do this."

"Those mages need help," she appeals to his revolutionary side, his words slowly sinking in that he'd kept the knowledge from her for her own safety. Ironic, now that she thinks on it. Damned either way, it seems. "The templar there is one Cullen trusts. And he's shown..." she swallows back the bitterness of her next words. "He's shown that we can trust him-"

"You _can't _trust him," another voice rises from the doorway.

Hawke's feet flatten against the floor and she turns to find her cousin standing there, chewing on her lip as she watches their embrace.

"Don't make the same mistake I did," Akarra whispers, her face as stark as her words.

* * *

_A/N: Wasn't sure about this chap, I had a bit of difficulty with it, due to some writer's block so I *hope* you all enjoy it. I wasn't too impressed with it myself lol. And as you can see, a bit of a shorter chapter, but it's needed to finish Act 1 in the next chappy :D So yay for battles and fighting and templars and mages and all sorts of goodiness next chap! Plus, it'll revealed what I'm doing different to pass time between Act 1 and 2! Woot! I am gone this weekend due to my father's wedding, so the next update won't be until next week, please don't cry, I already am :( lol. _

_Thanks again to everyone, I adore your comments and *love* reading what you guys think, so please keep that up, so much fun to get all your opinions. Enjoy the little grey box below, it's so much fun to fill out! lol._


	39. Chapter 39

_A/N: Well, like so many of you are accustomed to I'm sure, this chapter took a bit of its own meander. The characters were like you know what, we need some fun! So this has been broken into two, with Chapter 40 being the end of Act 1 - works perfectly right! Though, 40 chapters for Act 1 *shudders* at this rate, this story is going to be like 120 chapters long, and over half a million words... whoa. _**  
**

_Anyways! thanks to everyone that has been reading along! I know the last chapter was a bit short, so hopefully this length is more preferable. _

* * *

**Chapter 39**

_Anders_

* * *

"Mistake," Anders repeats, his fingers sliding away from Hawke's waist. "What mistake?"

Nibbling on her bottom lip, an argent stain colors Akarra's cheeks. Without another word, her head dips forward, her dark waves like a curtain, hiding her from him. Depravity sculpts her face, her lidded gaze fixated on the striated floor. The tips of her fingers twist into her robes, wringing the fine material until it wrinkles. Just like that, the realization dawns on him and Anders stumbles back from Hawke, his breath caught in his throat, hands fishing for anything to help fetch his balance. There's only one reason a mage would trust a templar. One reason Akarra would hide her face from him. One reason...

It _can't _be. Akarra would never...

While it's true that Kinloch Hold had been a sanctuary compared to Kirkwall, mages always know better than to consort with... _templars_. Not his Akarra. The memory of them stringing him up, bare to the world, the beaten leather tearing into his back - now they've done the same to his Hawke. Akarra is the very last person he would expect to hear had consorted with them - even she'd been outspoken when they'd opted to give him the switch. She's the very last person he would _want_ to hear it from.

His fingers dig into the patina, until his knuckles flash white. The strain of effort is difficult, the strength required to push Justice back down immense. It's been difficult recently, keeping a leash on the spirit. The smallest things have begun to push them over the edge, until _he_ comes out. Not moments ago, Anders had felt it - Justice rising, his concern for Hawke far too overwhelming. There'd been a time when oppression and discrimination had brought him out, but now, a single threat made on Hawke, and Justice swells up. Every day is a battle, one that Anders is desperate to win. He won't have her taken from him, not by the templars, not by Justice, not by anyone. But seeing Akarra silently admit she'd succumbed to a templar, the spirit washes over him, his flesh cracking and splitting with the brisk power of the Fade.

Soft fingers run through his hair, a cool caress running down his cheek. The scent is all Hawke and Anders bows with relief, his eyes closed as he breathes her in. His anchor, his pillar - she has so much strength to offer and he so little. His hand slides over hers, holding it in place, his face tilting into her palm as her thumb runs across his lower lip. Anders isn't the only one to feed from her solace, and Justice slinks back into the depths, trusting him to handle this situation.

_Andraste,_ but he doesn't deserve her. After all the templars put her through and all as a means to get to him, yet she'd maintained her strength and held loyal to him. This, from the woman he'd stolen from the first day they'd met. Much has passed between them since that fated day, but only because she'd offered him another chance, _trusted_ him to keep her safe in the Deep Roads. And now she's trusting him with something so much more than that; her heart and her life. What more can he ask from her? The least he can do is ensure that nobody destroys what they have, the templars included.

The last thing he wants is to hear how one of those bastards harmed Akarra, but he _needs_ to hear the story, needs to know just all that happened. How he wishes things could be different, but the hand they've been dealt is one that he _must_ keep close to his heart. He _needs_ to know what this templar is capable of, with him requesting that Marian aid them in such a matter. Saving apostate mages is always dangerous - and not simply because of the templars. Anders isn't as daft as many think him to be. As with any other mage, he knows how simple it can be to give into blood magic. He's never succumbed himself, but there's one out in the main room right now that does constantly; her wrists a battle ground of puckered scars, slashing down her wrists.

"Tell me," his whispers against Hawke, though his voice is for Akarra.

"What's to tell?" she demands in a voice hotter than flames. "I thought... You know what, it doesn't matter what I thought. I was a fool and he knows it. I trusted him and when the Warden's cleared the tower out of all abominations, Cullen condemned us. It was _his_ word that sent us into the dungeons, awaiting on the Right of Annulment from the Chantry. The bastard escorted all remaining mages down to our respective cells and abandoned us - _me!_ - there. He preached that blood mages couldn't be tolerated, that there was no way of knowing how many of us had been touched by such evil."

He drags his hands through his hair, kneading at the roots. Cullen had always been one of the nicer templars, or at least Anders had thought so. If ever there was a templar that could be trusted, it would be him. But listening to Akarra, hearing the deep-seated pain threading her voice, knowing she's holding some back, his fingers twitch with the desire to wring the man's neck.

"Was he the one to release you?" Anders asks, though he doesn't quite know why he does. What does it matter if he'd been the one to do so - the point remains that he'd locked them away in the first place. There's no concrete method to test a mage to see if they've been touched by a demon, but there are ways. Demons will always respond defensively when attacked. Had Cullen really cared to know, he could have easily put them through such an exercise. But like all other templars, he'd chosen the easier route.

_They do not see mages as people_, Justice's voice breezes through his mind.

_No, they do not. They never have. _From the first moment a child is seen to be _cursed _with magic - as they put it - they are taken from their mothers, and fathers, and siblings, and forever locked away in a stone tower, watched and studied as if they are things rather than people. Anders can't help but feel that the Maker would not approve of such treatment. If magic is a sin, why would He continuously grant His children this gift?

_They will never see you as anything more than a threat_.

Anders' mouth twists, his eyes slitting dangerously. Again, Justice is correct. It matters little how hard he strives for a way to change their thoughts on such a thing, the spirit is right. For far too many generations the Chantry has preached about magic as nothing more than a weapon, a tool, always to serve man, never to rule over him. _Serve_, as though they are born slaves.

"Thank you, Akarra," Hawke murmurs next to him, her hand retracting slowly, and her voice dragging him back to the scene at hand. Even Justice settles at the sound of her voice, content to listen to her.

"No, you don't understand," she whispers, the sound of her steps echoing through the kitchen as she pushes deeper in. The sudden movement slits Anders' eyes and his stare lands on her toes as she ghosts across the floor. "You _think_ you can trust him now, but he _will _turn on you, when you least expect it. Don't do as I did, Marian. Right now he preaches about how Meredith needs to be stopped, but when it suits his needs, he'll turn on you."

A void seeps into him when Hawke turns away from him and steps closer to her cousin, his gaze lifting to them. Lithe arms slide around Akarra's neck, drawing them into a close embrace. Their shared words are too hushed for him to make out, but the misery bruising Akarra's face fades, her lashes feathering her cheeks as she sinks into Hawke. Something unspoken passes between them, the tension in the room bleeding away until all that remains are the two cousins. Hawke is the first to move back, Akarra's cheeks held gently between her hands. Even Anders can feel the difference in Marian, such resilience - remarkable for one the templars strived to break. Perhaps she'd shed tears in the confine of their bed, but standing before him is a stanchion of fortitude. Her mind is like tempered steel - it may bend but it'll never break, strengthened as it is by her individual flame.

A faint smile plucks at Akarra's lips and with one last glance to Anders, she leaves the room. When Hawke turns back to him, he holds back the words about to rush out. The thought of her aiding the templars, of traipsing to this cave to meet with this man that Cullen trusts, burns inside. After listening to Akarra, Anders is quite convinced this is a trap. Another way to ambush Hawke. He won't allow it. No templar can be trusted, not even the one she holds as a close friend.

"I'm going with you," Anders finally states as he straightens to his full height, releasing the brunt of his stare on her.

"I never expected otherwise," she offers as she crosses back to him. "But this time, you need to listen to me," she teases, her sapphire eyes sparkling with laughter. "If we're going into that cave, I take the lead," she continues, her voice light and breezy as she takes his hand into hers. "Not you, not whoever else is coming. You listen to what I say."

Despite the dark emotions toiling within, a laugh slips past Anders lips. He'd said the same thing to her once, before they'd entered the Deep Roads and she'd done just as he said. The question is can he do as she asks? To place her life in her own hands. At least in his, he'd known where she'd been at all times.

"Anders," the playfulness fades from her tone. "You tend to lose control around templars and I won't risk losing you to Justice. Promise me you can control him."

Such a promise, one he's not sure he can make. Justice is impetuous and at times far stronger than Anders; not that he would ever admit such a thing aloud.

"I mean it," she winks, leaning into him, her fingers running through the loose strands of his hair. He shivers, his heart pounding, desiring more of her touch.

An unbidden thought rises, of loving her right here against the table, showing her all that she means to him in a way other than verbally. Laughter and chatter from the next room shatters his desire and swallowing his hunger, he nods. For her, he will do his best. And he ensures Justice hears her orders, silently encouraging the spirit to maintain his calm.

"But you have to listen to me as your healer," he counters. "If you're in pain-"

"I'll take two elfroot and call you in the morning," she teases, stretching on her toes and stealing his mouth before he can correct her.

He wants to tell her to take it easy, remind her not to strain herself, not to push beyond her limits, but _Maker_, the feel of her lips, of her tongue against his, her soft fingers curling over his cheeks - oh _Andraste_, but he loves this girl. Flames of desire heat his insides, and before he can stop himself, his hands curl around her hips, drawing her flush against him, careful to keep his movements slow so not to harm her. It's a direct contradiction to how he feels, how badly he wants to have her, to lose himself in her and forget the troubles of the world, but he has to compose himself.

"So are we going, or are you two going to polish the table right here and now?"

Anders jerks, his eyes flicking over Hawke's head to find Varric standing in the doorframe, the Tevinter elf and the pirate standing just behind him, perched against the wall, all watching. He means to move away, but Hawke's fingers thread through his hair, holding him in place, her sparkling eyes twinkling with mischief. How long has it been since he's seen her in such a mood? Funalis, surely, since then it's been nothing but death and pain.

"Varric," she growls playfully, putting even Fenris' voice to shame.

"Not just him, kitten," Isabela laughs. "But by all means, continue. I do like a little voyeurism now and then."

"No kidding," Hawke chuckles. Instead of granting the pirate's wish, she lowers down, and rests her cheek against his chest. He feels the shifting of her shoulders as she sighs, and his arms instinctively wind protectively around her. "Gather the troops, I suppose."

"Who do you want?" Fenris questions.

He knows she's plotting, trying to decide who would be the best choices. "Isabela, Varrc, you're with us. Varric, grab Alistair and Dread as well. They won't forgive me if I don't take them."

The three, a band of misfits in their own right, nod as one and push off the wall.

"Alistair?" Anders asks softly, his stomach dropping at the thought of fighting back-to-back with that man.

"He _is_ trained as a templar, it might not hurt to have him," she murmurs, slowly stepping away from him and approaching the next room.

"Yes, because one can never have too many templars," he deadpans, rolling his eyes when her back is turned. "Maker forbid we travel _once_ somewhere without someone breathing down our necks. Wonder what that would be like," he muses to himself.

Her laugh is unexpected, but his chest swells from the tinkling sound of it. How he loves to make her laugh. "Go grab your staff."

Feeling a little like the old Anders, he throws her a lewd grin, his words dragging over his tongue in a suggestive tone. "Why don't you grab it _for _me, sweetheart."

Hawke startles, a wide glance swinging his way. After a moment's hesitation, her cheeks color and her eyes drop the length of his body, his stomach knotting when her gaze settles on his belt. "Maybe I will," she teases before slipping out of the kitchen.

* * *

Hawke

* * *

Windswept pines move against the coming morning, the brisk air like daggers against the lashes on her back. She and Anders had decided to leave them unbound, the bandages rubbing against them far more painful than anything else, not that her loose blouse is really any better. Isabela had managed to scrounge her up a new jerkin - though a touch big - with the promise that tomorrow they would go hunting for new armor. Anders hadn't been pleased at all with the lack of protection they'd found her. But the more gear they loaded her with, the harder it became to move. Each time they strapped her jerkin on, Anders eyes pinned hers, his displeasure obvious in the tight press of his lips. Even now, he watches her every step, his fingers constantly falling to her lower back, vines of magic spreading through her with each wince. The rocky terrain is certainly not as easy to maneuver as her even marble floors.

With every step beyond the city walls, the tension Hawke had been suffering under leaks from her shoulders, sliding down to her feet before vanishing into the dirt. It's always been the way for her. Out here, under the pale moon sky, with the trees swaying to the faint breeze, she feels _home_. And out here, she feels more like Marian and less like Hawke. It feels nice to relax and enjoy the surrounding environment before she has to put her mask back on.

Ruffling detracts her attention from the rolling terrain and Hawke's gaze darts to her right where Alistair rummages through his pack, digging for something particular. So focused on whatever lies at the bottom of his bag, he seems unaware of the world surrounding them, his boots kicking at loose gravel as he nearly stumbles. Hawke's fingers press to her mouth, stifling the faint laugh she feels rising. The crook of his brow, so _serious_ as though whatever he's looking for _better_ be there - the world may just come to an end without it. His bowed mouth turns down with displeasure, his hand fishing amorously. Finally, the storms breaks, and light spreads over his face as he withdraws his closed fist, something clutched tightly within. Hawke's chuckle comes then, her eyes falling briefly to the ground to watch where she's stepping. She should have _known_ he'd have cheese, his love for the food more passionate than many consider their partners. She dares another glance when the wrapping crinkles, his gauntlets clutched under his arm so he can peel it.

A glance finds its way to her, and at the last moment, his lips crook into an embarrassed grin. "What?" he mumbles. "You want some?"

Hawke's breath catches, her eyes swinging up to his. The last time he'd offered such a thing, shenanigans had followed. For the first time, the memory actually _hurts_, reminding her of an easier time. It's only been two years, yet it feels like an eternity since Alistair, Cousland, Morrigan, Carver, and her entered Lothering. It feels like another _life_.

Sensing where her thoughts have strayed to, Alistair glances down at the cheese, gruffly clearing his throat.

Squaring her shoulders, she juts her hip into his, gently so not to jar her back, and feeds him a bright grin when he glances up. "I'd _love_ some," she offers the same words, the weight on her chest vanishing when a soft smile finds its way to his lips.

Things might be different now, but they're still friends, and she wouldn't have it any other way. She enjoys the company of her companions, but Alistair is one of the few that travels with her out of friendship and not some sense of obligation. In fact, the only other one would be Anders. She hadn't expected her mage to remain in her life after she'd assisted with Karl. But out of fear for her life in the Deep Roads, he'd all but strapped himself to her side, something that she'll _never_ regret. Her two boys, both from entirely different worlds, with her stuck in the middle. Funny how this situation continues to present itself. It'd been much the same with her family as well; templars on one side and her magically inclined relatives on the other. Her father had said the world isn't simply templars versus mages, but Maker, it certainly feels that way. Even her boys walk on either side of her, refusing to stand closer than required.

He extends a hand, the small nub of cheese resting on his palm. Hawke peers coyly up at him, wondering if it'll be much like the last time - him retracting the offer the moment she goes for it. Knowing her reflexes and instincts have been honed since then, she watches, awaiting her moment. Delightedly, that moment comes sooner than she'd thought, his eyes dropping to his path when his boots become ensnared in a thick snarl of roots. With a bright grin, Hawke snatches out and rids his proffered hand of the treat. The hunk of cheese slides back on her tongue and she's chewing before his chin lifts, his startled eyes flicking from his hand to her.

"You little sneak!" he laughs and the sound loosens something in Hawke's shoulders. For so long things have been strained between them and all she wants is to get back to the root of their friendship, and to be simply that.

"It's not my fault you're so slow, Warden," she mumbles around her full mouth.

His face wrinkles, his nose crinkling in disgust. "Gross, Hawke, didn't your mother ever teach you any manners. Speak _after_ you're done eating my amazing cheese."

She flashes him another grin, daring to stick out her tongue. "Got any more?"

"_More?_" he scoffs. "Do you know how much that little hunk cost!? That was really expensive cheese!"

Ignoring his complaints, Hawke skirts around to his other side, her fingers drawing up the flap of his pack before he can even turn.

"_Andraste's flaming sword woman!_ When did you start moving that quickly?"

A giggle actually falls past her lips and she digs her hand through his bag, laughing melodiously when her fingers grasp something rounded and wrapped. "When did you get so slow?" she counters, dancing back over to Anders, who watches with a startled gaze.

"When did you get so _pushy?_" Alistair growls playfully, retaliating to her former question, while rummaging through his bag again, his jaw dropping when he learns she stole it _all_.

Her eyes alight with felicity. "Pushy."

"As a bronto," he states with a large grin, enjoying their walk down memory lane as much as she.

"Hmm... I guess when I started surrounding myself with Wardens."

"Oh, ha ha," he laughs. "So this is _my_ fault?"

Her eyes quickly rake over Anders' face, encouraged by the small smile twisting his lips and the gentle glow shining out of his eyes. It _does_ feel good to kick back like this, and it seems he enjoys seeing her this way.

"You, or Cousland, take your pick."

"Oh, ouch! Stomp on my one manly feeling, why don't you, lumping me in with that archdemon..."

Even Anders laughs, though he tries to hide it behind his hand.

Drawn into the mirth, Hawke rounds and turns to walk backward, her eyes on them both, a challenge lighting up her face. "Now, since you're both Grey Wardens, I'm sure you're just _starving_."

Both snap to attention with her words before sharing a provoking stare.

"What about us, princess?" Varric jests. "The last thing I want is to get caught between food and a Grey Warden, but I think all our stomachs are a little tender right now, seeing as none of us have really eaten anything and it's almost morning."

Hawke's eyes dance to the two rogues, walking effortlessly across the terrain, side-by-side. Even her mabari sloughs next to them, his muddied eyes twinkling with happiness. It's been awhile since any of them have been able to kick back and have fun. So she decides to extend the challenge to them as well, though she doesn't envy them should their fingers actually get caught in the mouths of her Grey Wardens.

"First one to find me gets the cheese," she chuckles, winking once at Isabela before vanishing into the heavy folds of the nearby shadows. If she'd made it into a bet, she would have dropped the money at Isabela's feet. While not Queen Rogue, the woman is still more graceful than any of the men they walk with, Alistair by far the heaviest walker of them all.

Her companions share in a vexing stare, silently challenging one another for the prize of cheese. Hardly a breath she takes before the majority of the group dives forward, feet pounding against the uneven terrain, hands shuffling one another away. In the back, walking slowly is Anders, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

Hawke's lip rolls into her mouth, and she slinks low in the shadows, evading the multiple hands snatching within. Even Dread paces the shadow line, his nose all but buried in the soil, plumes of dirt blowing into the air when he exhales. With a quiet chuckle, she pivots on her heal and slips into another shadow, careful of her aim, and she continues to do this until three boulders lie between her companions and their prize.

Sliding back, her foot catches a pebble and a quick flash of pain lances through her back. Only at the last moment does Hawke manage to swallow her grunt, but Isabela's eyes lift either way, searching deeper in the shadows than Varric and Alistair dare. Dread is the closest, following his trustworthy nose, tracking her with his other senses rather than sight.

Deciding enough time has passed and to name Dread the winner, a heavy weight presses against the veil she's hidden within. Her gasp is quiet, but her eyes bug when Anders conforms to the shade and slides in next to her, his agate eyes shining merrily.

"Gotcha," he whispers.

"How did you _do _that?" she questions softly, knowing his _lack_ of penchant for shadows.

His mouth crooks, that half-smile that steals her heart every time shining through. "Trade secret," he says before swooping down and claiming her mouth.

With his tongue plunging into her mouth, she's hardly aware of the cheese vanishing from her fingers. Anders breaks away for a short moment, his face bright with enthusiasm.

"First come, first serve," he shouts before drawing his arm back and lobbing the hunk of cheese out of the shadow.

The sound of scrambling and a jubilant cry makes it to her ears but Hawke can't turn away from the sight of Anders. His eyes catch the morning glow of dawn, the amber sparkling like jewels. And as her gaze trails the firm cut of his cheeks, the newly risen sun blazes over him, devouring the remaining shadows and lighting him up. Never has she seen anything so spectacular, his already dark skin burnished into a deep bronze, his topaz eyes lambent as they watch her.

He kisses her again, slower this time, his movements full of desire. They haven't been together since before the templars, and she can feel his passion as aptly as her own, burning through her heart with a vengeance.

"Always with the kissing," Alistair groans, though there's little condemnation and mostly humor to his voice.

Hawke's mouth spreads into a grin against Anders, her chuckle lifting when his tongue flicks her lower lip.

"Mm," Anders hums against her, his chest vibrating under her palm. "That stinky cheese tastes a lot better on you."

Peels of delighted laughter fall from Hawke as she reaches over Anders' shoulder to unwind the pack he carries. She tosses it out of the thin scraps of shadow to Varric. "There's food in there," she says loudly before slipping her arms around Anders' neck and drawing him down to her level.

As one, she guides him further back into the shadows, knowing there's only a few moments left before the light of the sun burns the remaining darkness away. She covers her mouth with his, her hands cupping his neck. It's been far too long since they've been able to enjoy one another - the last that time in the alley, her cheeks warming with the memory.

He chuckles just as softly, his thoughts clearly in line with hers. "I enjoy seeing you like this."

"You do, do you," she winks, her fingernails gently dragging down the back of his neck.

With a shudder, he turns them until his back is flat against the stone and pulls her down over his chest, his arm braced around her hips. His eyes drop the length of her body, the sight of her oversized jerkin tugging his lips up at the corners. She looks like she's wearing something of her father's or brother's, the sides hanging off her; she and Isabela had shared in a giggle when they slid it over her. Likely best for her back, and though he doesn't mention anything, he'd been making noises back at the estate that her armor doesn't protect her well enough. Whatever awaits them in the cave, she'll have to be intensely aware of all her surroundings.

He draws her in as close as he can, his fingers running gently up the string of her bow. They'd agreed she would bring her daggers for protection, but Anders has already secured her vow that she would use her bow and keep a distance from any attackers, more specifically, remain by his side the entirely time. With those promises, he'd ceased his grumbling. She feels remotely prepared for whatever might come their way. Of course, even she knows that's when everything tends to get thrown to the ground. Before they'd left the estate, Anders had pulled her aside and sworn to her that no templar would lay a hand on her tonight, he would ensure it. Hawke's throat had swelled shut with emotion, the fervent burn to his eyes hard to take.

Turning her thoughts back to the man holding her in his arms, she drops over him and covers his mouth with hers, teasing him slowly with an amorous kiss until both are left breathless.

"Let's finish this and then we'll have all the time we need," his whispers against hers.

"I like the sound of that," she murmurs, her voice a bit huskier than she'd intended, but the thought of having him again tightens her stomach.

"So do I, love."

A pack of ravenous blight wolves seem to have torn apart her pack and with a mock sigh, she twines her fingers through Anders' and leads him toward it. "Here's hoping they left us a little something."

* * *

_A/N the deuce: I'm not sure how many of you are reading Of Flame and Blade (you should btw, it's ridiculously awesome!) I've edited chapters **9, 10, and 12** to match up with the relationship Eve Hawke is developing between Hawke and Alistair. You do not have to read these chapters if you don't wish to, but there's about 7000 words of added goodiness so you might wanna! _

_Anywho! Drop me a line, lemme know what you think! I get so sad when people don't share their thoughts - and no one wants a sad author! Bad things start happening ;) Enjoy! LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH!_


	40. Chapter 40

_A/N: Phew, this chapter just wouldn't quit! Hopefully everyone is still tagging along and reading and that you like this chapter :D I've been waiting A LONG time for this chapter to come along, and sadly, I'm not entirely pleased with it haha as I've been for the past couple chaps. *sigh* hopefully I figure out the problem soon and get to fixing it :D _

* * *

**Chapter 40**

_Hawke_

Shining in the dewy dawn is the templar, his hardened outlined glimmering in the slumberous sunrays. A soft halo of light breaks through the foliage surrounding him, morning's first kiss illuminating hair the color of freshly turned leaves. Finely spun crimson weaves through the mussed mop, long strands slipping before his eyes and curling over the back of his neck. And just as she notices it, the templar brushes clear his face, tucking them back behind his ear. Truthfully, he could do with a haircut, and she uses that small, harmless thought to overcome the rapid fluttering of her heart.

Just once, Hawke would like for the sight of steel wrapped around a large body not to spark her fear. She would like to be able to look upon them and not feel the hardened edge of a blade digging into her flesh, the remembered lashes upon her back, or the sight of her further curled around a sword. Her fingers fall to her blade-hilts as a precaution, her companions doing the same as they wait. So unpresuming, the way this templar studies his nails, with what appears to be utmost boredom. Could he be like Ser Carver or Alistair even; calm and kind? The path that lies between them feels like an ocean, the distance vast as she starts to cross it. Never, in all her days, has she imagined helping the templars, not after what they did to her father, not after what they did to Anders, not after what they did to _her_. Yet, there are mages within that cave, ones that need help and for some reason, Cullen thinks she can be of assistance.

She studies the templar with mute interest, watching as he tilts his hand back and forth in dawn's early grey morn before brushing something off his breastplate. Pleased with whatever he's just done, he drops his arm and slides his hands back into his gauntlets before turning his gaze down to his toes; ever the image of a nonchalant templar.

Back and forth he rocks on his heels - and is that humming? Her steps pause and her head cocks as she listens, the horribly off-tune melody rising to her ears. Not very aware of his surroundings, now is he? Once he hits the last note, he straightens with a bored yawn, stretching his arms out to the side, an armored hand falling against the back of his neck. She and Varric share an amused glance, soundlessly arguing over who shall interrupt him. After a small, albeit quiet argument, Varric nods Hawke forward, and at the last moment, she clears her throat, a single brow peaked skyward.

Colorless eyes snap up to her face. They remind her of ice, wide orbs glittering in a frozen sea, yet they carry more warmth than she expects, suddenly radiating with life when his face transforms into a blithe mask. A sprightly grin stretches his mouth, but it's the thick beard she can't turn her gaze from, the movement tugging on the nest of hair. Hawke almost laughs; it looks like a little squirrel curled around his chin. Whatever possesses men to grow such monstrosities, she'll never know. Anders keeps his light, a bit of roughness darkening his jaw, something she finds absolutely delicious, and her gaze now strays to in comparison. With his eyes locked onto the templar, she studies Anders' profile, the pale light banding around him. He looks... strong, and dependable, a deep well of fortitude swimming in his eyes. Goosebumps roll over her skin and she turns back to the templar, her lips quirking when her gaze lands on that mass of hair again. What woman would willingly touch a man with a furry animal clinging to their chin? Not that templars are... free to touch women, of course.

"Ah! You must be Serah Hawke!" he greets her jovially, his heavy-armored boots stirring up plumes of dried soil as he crosses the distance toward her.

Cold steel sweeps up her fingers before she can even offer them, but it's the heinous beard tickling the back of her hand that startles her. A light kiss, that's all it is, but the tension mounts among her people; a soft growl darkening Anders' lips. As for Hawke, she laughs lightly, finding him more of an amusement than a threat; surely, more of a surprise to her than any of her companions. Oddly enough, this templar reminds her a bit of Alistair back in their early days, and the smile that twists her mouth is earnest because of it.

Twinkling eyes lift to hers, a charming grin stealing his face. For a moment, she simply stands there, blinking in shock, wondering how in the Maker to take this. A templar... kissing her hand, in the presence of a mage, no less. As strange an occurrence as watching an old woman meld into the form a dragon. Though, Flemeth as a dragon Hawke believes - a kind and polite templar, not quite as much.

"I am Ser Thrask. I have heard so much about you!" he states loudly before lowering her hand and stepping back to give them room to breathe.

Some unspoken signal flares through the group, and they tense as one, their hands reaching for the individual weapons. The motion is not lost on the templar, but neither does it dampen his unorthodox behavior. Hawke had been starting to think the depravity of the templars was taught to them as recruits. Never has another beyond Alistair shown her any slice of kindness, and frankly, she doesn't quite know how to respond. Even Cullen had been a touch brisk with his words, eager to leave her presence, but this one seems as friendly as a pup, and just about as dangerous.

"Knight-Captain Cullen bade me wait for you. I am so pleased to see you've finally arrived!"

"You are?" Hawke chuckles. "That's a switch."

Next to her, a playful huff sounds, and her gaze sweeps over to find Alistair teasingly glaring. "That's my line."

A flash of confusion bolts across the templar's face, drawing their collective attention back to him. "'Fraid I don't understand."

"Nothing," she murmurs. "Cullen said there is a group of mages within? From Starkhaven?"

"Yes." His head dips with a steady nod. "I have done as asked and remained outside to ensure no one enters or exits, on the Knight-Captain's order to await you, my lady. He believes you can solve our problem without violence, a solution I must admit, I am desperately hoping for."

Her narrowed eyes flit around to each of her companions. Not only is it strange being referred to as _my lady_ by a templar, but also that they are hoping to solve this problem peaceably. "You are."

The eager templar nods again. "Very much so. I simply wish to have this done so I may escort these mages back to Kirkwall."

Hawke cocks her head, her teeth setting into the inner lining of her lower lip. "And should they not wish to return with you? I'm sure you're aware that I cannot _force _them to do something they do not desire."

Confusion darkens his face. "I'm afraid I do not understand," he murmurs. "They are mages. The circle is where they belong."

Anders jerks, but Hawke's hand falls on his arm, her fingers running small lines down the muscled length. Silently, she begs him to maintain his silence and calm, hoping as much as the templar for a peaceful solution.

"Not everyone believes such a thing," Hawke states, testing the waters with this templar.

Understanding clears his gaze and he nods once more, daring a glance back toward the arcing entryway. "That is true. Whatever the outcome, Serah Hawke, I simply wish for little carnage. I do not enjoy blood on my hands."

"Fair enough," she mumbles, following his line of sight to the dark void awaiting them. For some reason, she hadn't given much thought prior to this moment as to what might be awaiting them within. This won't be the first cave they've plundered and some of the creatures... her fingers thumb her hilts, anxiety gnawing away at her insides. _You have your bow_, she reminds herself, now plucking gently at the string. And a fine bow, indeed. Its perfect fit feeds her hope and with a final deep breath, she draws it from her back and notches the first arrow.

"Getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we?" Varric murmurs at her side, loading Bianca with a bolt.

"Let's just say I'm being cautious," Hawke replies before leading her band of companions into the deep.

* * *

What is that sound?

Hawke's eyes sweep over the rubbled path, peering through the darkness behind each and every rock, only to find shadows. Typically her domain, such a thing shouldn't be a cause for discomfort, yet the hairs on her arms stand at attention and her fingers tighten against her bow. There's a strange sense about this cave, the weight of eyes boring through the back of her neck.

Feet beat against the stone floor, hers and Isabela's the quietest. She'd known coming into this mess that Alistair would be the loudest, but she hadn't thought beyond that what it would mean to bring a templar among them. Grey Warden he is, he still possesses the talents all mages abhor - the ability to strike them down and sap their strength.

Too late now, and hashing over such a fine detail does nobody any good. So she presses forward, wishing with all she is that they could just step quieter. Whatever eyes watch them, there's a sinister feel about them. Call her paranoid, but with her current condition, she has the right to be so. An ambush is the last thing they want.

The shifting of rock startles her, and she jerks her bow around, the muscles in her back tightening painfully as she draws the string taut.

"Easy," Isabela whispers in her ear. For once something other than lewd humor softens it.

A gentle hand falls to the small of her back, the heat and pressure all entirely too familiar to her. Anders' fingers simply lay there, but its comfort she takes, regardless. Something about this place has her on edge, though that's not a bad thing.

"Just a rock fall," Varric points with Bianca, gesturing toward a stray dust cloud billowing into the air. Nothing more than that.

A soft whine lifts to her ears and she drops her gaze down onto Dread, offering a small smile. "I'm fine," she murmurs, her thigh knocking into his shoulder.

His weight leans into her, cheek brushing against her leg as his dark, tender eyes watch her. A swath of wet heat paints up her hand, his tongue swiping her quickly before she can stop him. There's never been a communication issue between the two of them, and with a soft sigh, she forces out the kink in her arms. Soft fur conforms beneath her fingertips and she chuckles when he guides them up, directing them to his favorite spot, right behind his ear. Appreciation rowls from his throat, his hindquarters rubbing against her like a great cat. Her fingers are met with air when he steps forward and lifts his nose to the air, huffing significantly before shaking his head avidly.

"Just because you don't smell anything doesn't mean there's nothing here," she chastises him gently.

Dropping his front half down into a crouch, his jaw loosens into a wolfish grin, pink tongue lolling in and out of his mouth. He lets out a deep _wruff_ before leaping back to all fours and stalking toward her, his mouth closing around her fingers before he turns and places his body before her. His massive size collides with her knees and it's only her hand falling on the center of his back that rights her before her face meets the dirt floor.

"It's going to be hard to protect me if you kill me first," she teases, rewarded with a mildly irritated scoff chased by another string of yowls and yips. Still, his reaction isn't enough to calm the knot twisting in her stomach. Hawke has been trained to rely on her instincts, and every bit of her is screaming that something is coming, something unpleasant.

Scraping against the rocks, that's what calls to her now; she draws her bow up, sparing a moment to recall the name Varric had found for it - Hood, short for _Hood's Message to the King_ - and pulls the string tight. Not nocked, not yet, but close. This time, there's no comforting touch, no calm words, no warm press of Dread. Instead, tension whips through the small motley group. Eyes narrow, fingers tighten, and all at once, Alistair pulls his sword free of his scabbard, Isabela twirls her dual blades, Bianca cocks, Dread's lips draw back, and Anders' hands swell with a crimson dusted lambency.

Wriggling, and skittering, that's what she hears, her chest catching with her suddenly shallow breaths. It's nothing obvious, but just enough that her companions switch position. Terror paints her throat white and chases down her spine. The sound, it's familiar - _too_ familiar - and her mind steals her back to a time when she'd cowered in the dark much like this, clutching at a cobble as her only defense. A _vile_ stench spreads through the stythe air - rotted flesh and death. She isn't the only one to gag, their bodies bowing from the strength of such an odor.

"No," she whispers, whipping Hood around and aiming into the darkness.

_Not again_, _not this time_. Have they somehow penetrated the Deep Roads? Are one of those... creatures with the limbs and teats here somewhere? _Not alone, not alone_ - the silent mantra chants through her tumultuous thoughts. The _scritching _against the stone could be anything, a spider, a dragon - _Maker, please let it be a dragon. Anything... anything but that thing._

A rigid arm curves around Hawke's waist, guiding her slowly into Anders' chest, his hands held far enough away not to harm her. Eyes elsewhere, he searches the darkness like she'd done, and just as Alistair's blade lifts, Anders steps in front of her, quietly shielding her body with his. How she wishes she could be irritated over such a show of protectiveness but her memories still hold her captive - the sound of her shrieks echoing through her mind.

"Anders," she whispers, about to admit she knows what's coming when chaos erupts around them, so deafening that for a moment she nearly drops Hood to clap her hands over her ears.

"They've raised the bloody dead!" Anders bellows, his arm brusque now as he shoves her back and points to the shadows. "You swore!" Is all he reminds her before whipping back around and unleashing the fury of his magic upon the wake of the undead.

She spares a moment to let her relief wash away the horror she'd felt - _not darkspawn, not darkspawn_ - before she nocks her first arrow, the tip striking deep into the empty socket of the first corpse stumbling their way.

_Dear Maker, they've raised the dead_... How desperate are these mages? So much so that they care little for the magic they've just used. Blood magic.

Skeletal bones continue to uplift their wasted hands from the garish floor of the cave, _pulling_ themselves to the surface. Bleached bone stained with filth assemble and begin to shamble toward them, clawed fingers and whetted fangs flashing in the faint light that ripples over Anders. Part of her wishes he wasn't flush with the power of the fade, because this is an image she could have gone her entire life without bearing witness to. The sight of the undead rising from the earth and pouring toward them in waves steals her breath - they aren't all that different from the darkspawn; gnashing teeth, rumbling growls, and forsaken grunts.

Sucking in a steadying breath, Hawke starts to release a company of arrows, her gaze focused and firm on her targets. One by one the creatures fall, but it's Anders' fires that devour them, burning them to a cinder, the scent of crispy flesh clogging her nose.

"Decimus, stop -"

"They are mindless slugs of the Chantry! They do the templar's bidding -"

"Decimus, please!"

Hawke's head swivels to the sound of voices, yet she sees nothing beyond the faded outlines of the rocks, the earthen walls, and the shadowy silhouettes of the stalactites and stalagmites. Hood is held at her chest, the string plucked as she waits for these people to show themselves, but the shadows simply continue to spread forward, about to eclipse them when Anders mutters a foreign incantation. With her next breath, his entire body ignites in a wash of flame and radiance. Light brighter than anything she's ever seen swirls around them in maelstrom, drawing closer and closer with his every word. At the last moment, Hawke throws up a hand, shielding her eyes and only when the darkness returns does she lower it.

Whatever he's done, the scene has shifted, a fluorescent glow ebbing off the walls and dripping into a small pond in the center of the cavern. Her eyes drop to the floor, widening when she notices that for the first time, there's no shadows. Whatever it is he just cast, the shadows have retreated in its presence, illuminating the grotto with artificial light.

A group of people, much larger than she'd expected, stand before them, backs against the furthest wall as they stare in wonder, faces dusty and marred with streaks of filth. Even their clothes are dark, clearly they've been hiding here for awhile. Hawke has never seen such magic, but to see their faces carved in such rapture, she turns to Anders with overt appreciation shining from her eyes. It isn't the dark she's begun to fear, but all that lies within it. And how can she not? The Deep Roads, the templar cell, this cave...

Warm fingers twine through hers and Anders offers a gentle squeeze, a calming aura surrounding him. Hawke latches onto that and draws it inward, using it to give her the strength to step forward and handle this situation before more of the undead begin to sunder the earth.

"Come no further!" a woman commands, drawing herself up the moment Hawke takes her first step, her alabaster face knotting with displeasure.

Hawke slows her ascent, her hands lifting in a peaceable display. "We've done you no harm," she says clearly.

"You reek of the Chantry!" the withered man next to the woman bellows. "I smell the corruption all over you!"

A faint chuckle sounds off behind Hawke. "Well, sweet thing, that'd be because we had to fight _the walking dead_."

Even Hawke's lips curl with amusement. Trust Isabela to hit on the finer point of things.

"Aww, do I smell?" Alistair teases.

Hawke doesn't even _want_ to turn around to see what those two are doing, but she can hear the shifting of Isabela's gear. "Oh, you smell all right, but not of corruption. Ugh, what is it with you Fereldans? Thank goodness Anders took care of Hawke's purity, now we just need to find someone to help you, big boy."

"Us_ Fereldans?_" Alistair scoffs gently. "Need I remind you of the darkspawn? We Fereldans were a little busy, oh I don't know, trying to _survive_."

"Hey!" Isabela's voice echoes through the cavern. "I was in Ferelden too, in case you've forgotten, and I _certainly _found the time to take care of my needs."

"Yes, with Cousland no less, good choice," Alistair deadpans.

"At least he knew what to do with a woman's -"

"Isabela, Alistair," Hawke groans, daring to pinch her brow with her forefinger and thumb, hoping her cheeks aren't noticeably burning. "Do the two of you think we could get back to business?"

A mumbled apology rises from Alistair, but Isabela keeps quiet. Hawke can only imagine she's grinning at Alistair; the poor man is probably beat red in the face.

Releasing a sigh, Hawke turns back to group of apostates, about to speak when the blighted man shouts - "Kill them!"

Hawke jerks on Hood, her eyes flashing wide. "Wait-"

"Decimus! They are no templars!" The woman brings her hand down on his arm, emotion burning within her face. The way she handles him, fingers softly curled around his wrist, eyes pleading for him to be calm, it's clear there's some sort of relationship between the two.

The dagger holds poised above his other wrist, the blade shimmering in the dim cavern light. Hawke takes in a deep breath, awaiting the moment he chooses to bring the weapon down upon himself. Hood is nocked, though lowered to the ground, but it won't take more than a second to release her shot. And this arrow knows the beat of the blood mage's heart. Whether she wants to do this or not, she will not endanger any of her companions to the whims of this man. Alistair may be a templar but he would have to get close enough to smite the mage, which means risking his life. While Hawke wants to help these people, she will not risk harming any of her own; in that aspect, she's quite firm. If it comes to death, let it be one of theirs and not hers.

"Decimus, please," the woman's voice wavers, her breath trembling as she pleads with him.

Eyes watch them, the same eyes she'd felt when they'd entered the cave. Mages with the ability to hide in the shadows - she's never heard of such a thing. Not even Anders possesses the talent for that, even though she's tried to teach him. A spell, surely, one she can still feel brushing over her toes. Is that what Anders had done? Had his spell countered theirs? She can only imagine theirs had been blood magic from the way Anders carries himself, stiff, impatient, angry.

This Decimus and the woman engage in a quick conversation, their words popping in the air as they argue. The argument is lost to the newly forming shadows, returning as Anders' spell fades; Hawke could sneak near them, attempt to listen, but Anders takes that moment to turn, his eyes burning with strength and determination.

"I don't like this," he mumbles quietly under his breath, his fingers sealing around her arm as he gently draws her away. "They are using blood magic."

Her brow furrows as she tips her head back to meet his intent stare. "I know."

"They are dangerous. As much as I want to help mages in need, these ones have gone beyond. Blood magic corrupts, that one is in league with a demon. If you help them, you might get hurt."

A calm smile softens her mouth and eases her stance as she lets him draw her into his chest. "I always risk getting hurt." Certainly not the best thing to say and his groaning chuckle is evident of that.

"Because _that _makes it all right."

Her eyes alight with playfulness. "Sarcasm is second nature to me, mage," she teases.

"Really? I thought it was something else entirely." Brandy eyes snap with intrigue, his lips tugging into a lewd grin.

Remembering their moment outside the cave, Hawke curls into him, her hand cupping his neck. "That's third nature to me," she winks before stealing a quick, passionless kiss that still steals her breath and steps back.

"Oh sure, scold us for talking, but you two can go ahead and grope each other all you want," Isabela pouts playfully, shooting Hawke a quick wink.

Chuckling, Hawke steps toward the two leaders of this faction with Anders at her back, his fingers resting innately on her hips.

"We are not templars," she informs them, her voice carrying over the rock. "I come on behalf of Sebastian Vael, your prince. He has requested I find and aid you."

Apparently these are the right words, for the entire group falls silent and turn to her, their faces tight, but with confusion rather than discord.

"You... come on behalf of Starkhaven?" The woman repeats. Her fingers constrict against Decimus' arm, holding his hand at bay.

Hawke nods, watching that vacillating blade as it inches closer and closer to his flesh. This one doesn't care where they come from, or what their purpose, it's the woman she needs to convince. Decimus is long gone and as Hawke watches, his head cocks as though listening to a silent conversation. In league with a demon, Anders said. Well, it's obvious the maleficar is in league with something. His lips move in a flurry, bickering with something unseen. And before the woman can utter another word, he wrenches out of her grip and jerks the blade across the column of his wrist.

A ghastly shadow of an unseen power swells through the cavern, to the point where Hawke nearly crumples beneath it. Her entire life she's lived with magic in some form or another, and it's made her a touch more sensitive to the Veil than others. Alistair is the first to move, but she's quicker as she releases the first and only shot, the tipped arrow rupturing through the man's chest, seeking heartblood. How quickly the power vanishes, with an audible pop that has her working her jaw in an attempt to clear the pressure from her ears. But it's the rude trickle of blood dripping from his cleaved chest that Hawke watches. Her shoulders bow with the weight of this man's death, her pulse threading through her. She'd known it would come to this, had seen it in his eyes, but that doesn't make it easier to accept that she's just stolen someone's life. If she were in the woman's shoes, how would she feel if someone deemed that Anders had become a danger and deserved to die?

Decimus crumples to his knees, his face finally devoid of hate as he turns it up to gaze lovingly at the woman. Not a breath later, she's before him, her fingers curling around the arrow as though she can change what's just happened.

"I'm sorry," Hawke whispers when the maleficar drops onto his stomach, a small pool of blood creeping over the stone.

"You're sorry?" she shrieks, her head whipping back over her shoulder to spear Hawke with a baleful glare. "She's _sorry_! You _murdered _him!"

To this, she doesn't argue, but instead nods. "Yes."

"You left us no choice!" Anders rises to Hawke's aid. "Perhaps if your lover her been a bit more friendly... we didn't come to harm you, we came to help!"

But the woman is deaf to the defense, bowing over her lover's body sprawled across the ground. Her hands fall against his back, her cries quiet and mournful. It breaks something inside Hawke to see this, to know she's the cause of someone else's pain, but this isn't the first time she's had to make a similar choice. The good of the people, the good of _her_ people, must come above those that would bring them harm. This man had been a maleficar, he'd brought the knife down on his wrist as a means to feed a demon - and Hawke's friends would have paid that price.

"There is always a choice," Hawke argues Anders' words. "I could have decided not to kill him, just as he could have tried not to resort to blood magic." A crowd of eyes lift to hers once more, even the woman's as she hovers over the body of her lover. "It's the way of the world, our choices shape them." She looks to Anders, her face a calm mask while a strange glow lights behind his. "Sometimes, the wrong choice, the _hard_ choice, must be made."

She crosses the distance between her and the woman, the heels of her boots the only sound in the cavern. It's as though the entire world has settled to watch what happens now.

Hawke takes a knee next to her and meets her hateful stare unblinkingly. "The question is what choice do you make now? You may attack me, we fight, one of us dies, and you're free to join your lover. Or you allow me to help you and your people - your decision."

"I should kill you!" the woman hisses, her face transforming into something wickedly beautiful, a snake poised to strike, venom welling over her fangs.

"You can try," Hawke murmurs sagely. "But you will fail."

"Maker spit on you," she growls, magic gathering in her hands.

Hawke takes a moment to study the unleashed storm of fury sweeping over the woman's face, and the crackling lightning snapping between her fingers.

"Many have tried in the past to kill me," Hawke continues, for some reason hoping to save this one's life. Perhaps she sees much of herself in this mage, mourning over the body of her lover. Any day the templars could sweep down on them and proclaim Ander' life forfeit. Any day, she could lead him down the wrong path, and lose him. Whatever her reasoning, Hawke wants nothing more than to save this one, give her another chance at life. "Some have even come close," she continues. The woman doesn't even see Hawke's dagger until it lies against her throat, bobbing every time she swallows. "But clearly, none have succeeded. I am giving _you _the choice right now. Die and join him, or step down and live another day."

The mage's eyes drop to the steady blade, her shallow breaths fogging the steel. For a moment, Hawke wonders if she'll try her luck, but surely no one is fool enough to attempt such a thing with a dagger at their throat. A lifetime stretches before them and finally, when Hawke presses the blade a little tighter, the woman's hands flicker and die, her tense shoulders rounding in defeat.

"Good," Hawke nods and leans back, offering the woman her had. "My name is Hawke. As I said, I've been asked by Prince Vael to offer you assistance."

The mage eyes her warily before slipping her fingers into Hawke's palm and allowing her to help her up. As one, they rise, gazes locked the entire time.

"Grace," the woman mumbles. "And we are grateful for whatever help you can provide us."

Hawke's mouth pulls up, and she dares a glance back at Anders. "See, sarcasm."

As silent as the cave they stand in, Anders and her companions watch her with stunned surprise. A single brow rises as Hawke watches them, wondering where their thoughts have taken them. Only when she steps back from Grace does Anders step forward, a strange light forming behind his eyes.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asks gently, his fingers brushing over her cheeks.

"Fine," she laughs. "Why?"

He and Alistair share a glance, an odd occurrence all on its own.

"I've never seen you like that before," he finally says, gesturing to Grace.

"Like what?"

"Scary," Varric laughs. "My readers are going to just love this! '_Many have tried, none have succeeded_'," he roars with laughter, his granite scribbling over crinkled vellum.

"So what now?" Gracie's voice rises in the depths of the cavern. "What happens with us?"

Hawke's lips part with the intent of telling them to run, when a smooth and disgustingly familiar voice rises from the newly formed shadows. "Now, you come with us, like good little mages without causing a fuss."

* * *

**Anders**

* * *

From next to her, he watches as a blind rage sweeps over Hawke; her face colors, eyes turn to ice, and lips thin with displeasure the moment she turns. Daring to follow her gaze, his own falls on a man with a craggy face and pale hair. It's obvious she knows this templar and Anders' stomach twists with hate when he realizes just what that might mean.

"Well now," the deep voice from moments ago rises again.

The two seem locked in some battle of stares, Hawke unwilling to look away.

"Hawke-" Alistair whispers.

"We're not in the Gallows this time," Hawke hisses, her fingers wrenching her blades free.

"Serah," Grace pleads in a hushed voice. "Don't let the templars take us. You don't understand -"

"Oh, I understand just fine," Hawke growls.

"What an interesting morning," the templar muses as he steps before his comrades, his heavy-plated boots toeing through the charred remains of the dead that had been risen. Those lifeless eyes turn down to the muck he steps through, a pleased smile claiming his lips when his chin lifts, gaze pinning Grace as he tsks her. "Naughty, raising the dead. That's blood magic."

Anders' fingers clench at his sides, about to ignite when a soft hand drops down onto his arm. His gaze lifts to find Isabela pressing against him, one of her daggers sliding into his grasp. Not a word passes between them, but Anders understands. They don't know he's a mage, and Hawke suffered much pain to keep that information from him, but the dagger feels foreign to him, and he _knows_ he'll be useless with it. He's not Marian, wickedly dangerous no matter what weapon she handles; blade, bow, or tongue. If she were a mage, she would be downright unstoppable. As it is, she's a hindrance on the templars, had she been born with magic, they likely would have made her Tranquil already; far too risky. Regardless of the dagger in his hand, his staff still lies against his back, as obvious as the dead strewn across the floor. Should they bother to look, they'll see him for exactly the mage he is. With Isabela's blade clutched tightly in his hand, he starts toward Hawke, afraid to be out of reach should something happen.

"So," the templar breaths as he circles the group, coming to a stop in front of her. "Our little hawk somehow managed to survive. They told me you'd escaped the hangman's noose, how clever of you. And healing rather nicely I see, as well. You should come visit us again sometime soon. See if you recall that name a little bit better."

Anders' arm snaps out with little thought to repercussion. His fist connects with the templar's jaw with a deafening crack and he watches in mute appreciation as the man staggers back, his hand rising to cup his face.

"Touch her and my face will be the last you'll see," Anders snarls, his arm shivering as his grip tightens around the hilt.

"With that tiny dagger?" the templar roars with laughter, working his mouth to stretch out his jaw. "What do you think you can do with that little thing?"

"Large enough to cut your throat," is all Anders says.

His thin mouth tugs upward. "Barely enough for a scratch. Now if you don't mind, this little hawk of mine and I have something to discuss."

Power rises in Anders' throat and only at the last moment does he manage to tamp Justice back, silently begging the spirit to remain calm. The last thing they need is to announce to the world that he is the Healer they seek, and that he's an abomination. But Justice will not be easily swayed, his fear for Hawke overwhelming.

_Patience,_ Anders tells him, gently guiding him back to the recesses. _The time is not now._

"I told you the next time I saw you, you were dead," Hawke spits out her words, her daggers twirling dangerously in her hands. "I'm not so defenceless this time," she tells him. "And you're not leaving this cave alive."

"Struck a nerve, did I?" he laughs in her face.

"I'm about to," Hawke avows.

"Yes, well, forgive me if I'm not too concerned. The Knight-Commander is going to find it most interesting that you've been caught here aiding maleficar."

"And yet, they're not the demons here," Hawke utters in an oddly calm voice.

The templar's blue eyes snap with enraged light. "Still haven't gotten a hold of that tongue. Maybe I _should_ have cut it out."

This time it's Marian that laughs, the strange noise halting Anders in his steps. He blinks, realizing he's steps away from attacking the man. No one moves toward him, the small battalion far too interested in these two to realize the real underlying threat.

"Pretty words and threats when I'm alone, weaponless, and locked in a cell, Karras," Hawke growls. "Any man can beat a woman when she has no way to protect herself."

Karras' head falls back and a braying laugh falls from his lips. "So you think to threaten me in front of my own men? When the Knight-Commander hears this, you'll be swinging for real this time."

Hawke strikes faster than anything Anders has ever seen. Her face a tight knot, she vanishes before their very eyes and reappears at Karras' back, her blade pressed against his throat before the man can even turn his head.

"I _tire_ of your useless prattle," she hisses in his ear before jerking her arm to the side.

The entire cavern falls into silence, each and every member holding their breath. Karras' eyes widen, shock carving into the craggy lines of his face just as a trickle of blood spills from the line cut into his neck. Anders' blinks, surprised at how quickly this happened.

"That's for my father, you son-of-a-bitch," she rasps before shoving him to the ground, his lifeless eyes already fogging over.

Swords are drawn and war cries are bellowed as the small battalion of templars suddenly surge forward, their eyes intent on the woman that had just slain their comrade. To the Void with holding Justice back, he _won't_ let anything happen to Hawke.

Anders' turns, and just as the silvered army descends upon them, he releases the real threat, his body igniting with the power of the Fade, and Justice shining out of his eyes. How fitting.

* * *

_A/N: So hopefully you enjoyed! I've been waiting FOREVER to kill that bastard haha, and it felt so good to have Hawke cut his throat. Drop me a line :) Lemme know what you thought. _


	41. Chapter 41

_A/N: Oooo really early update! But once I knew the POV I was opening with, I just **couldn't** wait! haha. So thanks to everyone who is following along, yet again :) You guys deserve cookies._

* * *

**Chapter 41**

_Justice_

How she moves with such style and grace, her flourishes perfectly delivered, her attacks flawless. Though his eyes are on the assault spread thin before him, he is aware of her every step. The two are entwined in an effortless dance, always one step ahead of the templars. Never has he engaged in such a battle, knowing his back is thoroughly protected, that the person who guards it is trustworthy. Anders is the first Justice ever met that fell into one such role; Hawke the second.

The only breeze present in the stagnant cave comes from her quick attacks, the air rushing over his head as he ducks in time for her arrow to lance the next man. He doesn't think, simply moves, bowing and allowing her to roll over his back, her daggers slamming down into an unarmored slit of neck. She drops with the templar, her hands wrenching on the hilts, as Justice's staff cuts through the air above her. Effortless.

Or so he thought.

It's the catch of her breath that calls to him and Justice whips around, pure fury sliding down his throat at the sight of blood staining the pale material she wears. Unsuppressed light floods the cavern, a tempest of power thrumming from him. Images cascade over him, of her prone upon the bed, her back a ribboned ruin of what it once was. Slick, swollen weals that stretched from her neck to waist, the torn flesh jagged. That woman, the pirate, had brought harm upon him when he'd first caught sight of the damage. Her strike had been enough to offer Anders control once more, but Justice remembers. The sight of those beaded drops of blood welling over her bronzed skin is not something he will easily forget. And the recalled image spurns his rage, his magic pulsing at his feet as it sweeps over the rugged terrain. _These men _are the cause of her pain. _These men_ belong to the one sprawled on the ground, his neck shining with the bloodied smile she'd cut into him. _These men_ will die.

Her steps are slowing, her movements stiffening. Gone is the fluidness he knows her to be capable of, and in its place is the stark mask of pain. Those that attack them are not blind to such a failing; they scent her vulnerability as a wolf does its prey, and as one they descend. Justice's power comes unbidden, fed from the Veil, flowing through him without pause. Glowing hands rise before his face, searing fire licking up his wrists. They surround her and her alone, having successfully severed her from her companions. The magic he weaves is complicated and powerful at best; the risk to Hawke is great, but necessary if he is to protect her. And he must, Anders will have it no other way.

Someone is screaming, the panic in their voice distracting. He turns the sound away, refusing to allow anything to sway his strength. It builds, the air around him thickening with the Fade's presence. It needs to be now, his gaze still tracking her clumsy evades. She is waning, her strength fading in the face of their perseverance. Anders had been concerned she would not be able to fight as well as they know she can; his fears are sound. Yet, the templars still do not land a single blow. She twists and folds into the shadows, appearing moments later, forcing them to remain on guard.

Releasing a sharp breath, Justice's magic arcs from his fingers - flames from one hand, and a shield from the other. The barrier seals around Hawke in a shimmering layer as the fire devours the templars. Their screams fill the cavern, the scent of burning flesh and melting metal clogging his nose. This world is harsh and foul, the air brackish and poisonous. It is not like the Fade, where everything is shaped around the spirits. This scent is no worse than the cloying fragrance of this reality, yet he recalls the sensation of Anders bowing beneath it not a short while ago, his eyes watering from the sting. Justice's always burn, so it is nothing new when they are assaulted again.

"Justice!"

Hawke shouts his name - _his! _- and he spins, unaware that she'd vanished from the last spot she stood, so lost to the perverse smells. How he wishes to ignore how the sound of his name warms his being, how the sight of her standing gives him strength. These are Anders feelings, they must be. He knows of them through memories. It is not his heart that beats unsteadily as he approaches her - or so he continues to convince himself. He is a spirit of the Fade. Nothing in this world beyond the templars concerns him. He nearly has himself convinced - until those eyes lift to regard him, as blue as a Fade lake. The depths consume him; how many memories does Anders possess of staring at her in such a way? As many, if not more, than Kristoff. When last Justice looked upon her, Anders' feelings within were strange, conflicted as he struggled to understand what this woman meant to him. It is not so anymore. There is nothing but a deep-seated emotion, a bonded connection uniting the two of them. It is as real as the world surrounding them, and feels just as old. Justice' eyes narrow curiously, the queer desire to explore this attachment spreading through him.

Slowly, his hand lifts from his side and with a deep breath, he rests it upon her shoulder, the warmth of her body singing beneath his touch. He's handled her before, but never like this, not for any reason beyond it being necessary. Her eyes widen, her mouth parting softly as she watches silently. His fingers twitch with the desire to draw her into him, to confirm that she is, in fact, well. Lingering emotions - he cannot seem to break from their hold.

"If it isn't too much to ask," a frail voice rises, "can I perhaps interrupt you two for a bit of healing?"

Hawke is the first to blink, severing the connection that holds him hostage as she drops to a woman's side, sliding away from his hand. Justice's lips press together, his fingers tingling from the remembered feel. The muscles in his jaw tighten, his teeth grinding shamelessly. It should not be like this. They have a cause, a purpose, one that they _must not _stray from. Yet, he can feel Anders' distance, his desire to make a life with her and leave everything else behind, as aptly as Justice feels the void where Hawke stood not moments ago.

"Justice," Hawke whispers, turning those blighted eyes up to him once more.

The irritation in his gut thickens the moment he takes a knee next to her with little thought to the movement. She bade him and he came without question; the realization that she has such sway over him is startling.

The soft touch of her hand on his crooked knee drag his eyes down, the flurry in his stomach unwanted. She gestures, and he follows the sweep of her other hand, noting the woman reclined against the dwarf's chest, her hands cupping a stream of red staining her side. She holds his attention for but a moment before the templar enters his sight, hovering over the woman's shoulder, distress carved into his features. Justice's fingers curl inward, his skin fevering with his quickened pulse. It's Hawke's hand and the brief squeeze she offers that helps him gather his wits. He remembers their last encounter and her heated words; the memory is all that convinces him to ignore the armored man and return to the injured woman. His shoulders tighten as he realizes what he's just done. This woman should not have such a strong presence in his - or their - life. Yet, she's in his head, just as she is Anders'. His purpose is to rid this world of the blight of the templars, yet he pauses, he _hesitates_, because he knows Hawke would not appreciate it should this Alistair be harmed. Unacceptable.

As he knows all Anders' companions, he recognizes this as the one that struck him in Hawke's bedroom. The pirate. Why she is known as such a thing, he doesn't know. The word is familiar to Anders, though Justice has never heard it before now. He scours his friend's thoughts, plucking the image of this woman behind an odd contraption known as a helm. Their lives are spent on the sea, pillaging those that dare cross their path, raping and stealing from those that cannot defend themselves, delivering injustices upon the weaker. Justice's mood blackens, the storm of these thoughts swelling and breaking around him. They sound like templars, just as callous and dangerous, yet Anders travels with them both.

"Oh, Isabela," Hawke murmurs, her hand leaving his knee to touch her friend's side. Her voice burns away the dark thunderclouds, drawing his attention back to the situation laid before them.

"At least it isn't you for once," the woman chuckles weakly, dismissing Hawke's comment with an airy wave of her scarlet slicked hand.

"Weren't quick enough to step out of the way of the sword?" Hawke teases.

"Don't remind me," Isabela grumbles, her honeyed eyes flashing with anger.

"This is a flesh wound," Justice admonishes, his annoyance building as he studies the gash.

"See Rivaini, it's nothing," Varric offers. "Now hurry up and get off me, you're rumpling my chest hair. It took me all morning to style it right!"

"All morning, hey?" her voice deepens as she struggles not to laugh. "And I thought Chantry Boy here was bad, the way he fusses over his."

"Chantry Boy?" the templar speaks up. "Maybe we could just stop with all these little nicknames. I _do_ have a name, you know."

Justice's eyes dart to his face, his hate for the man settling in his throat as a lump that he has to swallow past. How he would love to end this man's life, put his body in the ground, and walk away. Whether he is actually a templar or not, the man is trained as one and has shown no love of mages.

Restraining his loathing, Justice prods clinically at the wound, plucking the woman's garments away from the gash so he can attend to it. A groan of pain lifts between them and he pins her with a detached stare. "This is not life threatening."

"Doesn't mean it didn't hurt," she laughs, groaning as she bows over her side. "Balls, Justice, you're about as gentle as a raging bronto. Channel a little bit of Anders, won't you."

Justice's head cocks to the side, the pirate's words echoing through his head. These people think of Anders as a gentle soul, a healer. Perhaps once, but he is no longer that man. Fools that they are if they do not see the real man beneath the surface. Anger, hate, rage, purpose, these are what fuel Anders. Justice's stare shunts over to Hawke, his eyes tracing the soft curves of her face. If there is any kindness remaining within Anders, it is due to her.

There'd been a time when Justice had believed her to be a distraction. He would have done much to sever these two, to break whatever connection they found. Perhaps he still would if the opportunity presented itself. She _is_ unlike any he has ever met, her passion and love an intriguing sight. Had they no other purpose, had _he_ been a real being of this world, Justice could easily see her being someone he would respect - not that he doesn't already. But these people, this woman, they keep Anders from his cause. They keep him hidden in the shadows, holding him back when he must break free. A revolution cannot be started as such.

"Well, sparkle fingers, are you going to heal it or use my blood as paint?"

Exasperation drags his brows down, the woman's voice calling him back to the present. "_Sparkle fingers?_"

"Ah," Hawke offers a nervous laugh. "Perhaps now isn't the best time, Isabela?"

"What?" she grins, clearly healthy enough to crack jokes. "It's what you call Anders."

Justice's eyes snap to Hawke. She drops her head, suspiciously rubbing at her brow. "Um, _can_ you heal her?"

He doesn't bother to offer an answer but instead curves over the woman, his hands hovering over her side. The glowing heat forming around his fingers is evident enough that he can and the pirate rounds with relief the moment the slash seals -

"_Sweet Andraste!" _

Justice is on his feet and spinning not seconds after an unknown voice lifts within the cavern. Steel scrapes against stone as their companions scramble to their feet, a touch slower than the spirit, but on par with his reaction. The man hovering amidst the corpses is another that he knows from Anders' memories, a templar from Kinloch Hold. Cullen, if he remembers the name, though it matters little. Magic swells over his hands, preparing for the second wave.

"Justice, no!" Fingers lace through his, their breath sharp as they struggle to yank him back.

"Justice?" the templar repeats his name, his eyes swinging around the cave. "Hawke, what in the name of the Maker happened here?!"

He knows from her faintly calloused hands that its Hawke gripping at him, yet Justice does not give in to her attempts, his feet firmly planted on the ground.

"Please, Justice," she whispers, her tone bordering hysteria. "If Cullen learns about Anders, about you-" she breaks off, the tremor in her voice hard to deny. He knows that should the templars learn of him, they will do all in their power to destroy Anders, the threat that he is. And it is that which holds him still and silent, the flames of his magic flickering faintly in the darkness as he takes a moment to work out his thoughts. Had he not just established that Anders must be sundered from these people? That he must be free to kindle the revolution?

"By all that's holy," Cullen continues to lament, slowly circling the cavern, his gaze searching the devoid faces of the men beneath him, as he nears them. "I will know what happened here!" he demands in a hard voice.

Hawke's words stutter as she starts to weave the tale, careful to leave out any mention of him; Justice's eyes narrow. This one knows Anders is a mage, but few know of the state he is in now. Perhaps... perhaps it is time.

The faint echo of Anders' panic clouds his thoughts for a moment, but Justice pushes past it. This is the reason they merged, the reason they came to Kirkwall. There is no abandoning the cause. Anders wishes it to remain a secret, but Justice does not. A push is needed, and the moment is perfectly delivered when the templar's hand seals around Hawke's wrist and he yanks her away, his heated words snapping from his mouth. Justice lashes out, his magic descending on the templar with a blast of strength that sends him skittering into the far cavern wall, a sadistic grin twisting his lips when a sick crunch sounds from the man's nose. Without thought to consequence, he plants himself between Cullen and Hawke, his body lit with the power of the Fade, his staff silvered and glowing in his hand.

"You will **not **touch her," Justice commands, his voice deep and authoritative, his hand flush with viridian flame as he points a finger at the templar. "None of you will **ever** touch her again."

"Andraste be my witness," Cullen whispers, fear and shock settling over his face, "you are an abomination!"

"_No!_" Hawke cries, her side brushing against Justice as she rounds him. "It isn't like that," she rambles. "It's not a demon, I-"

"Demon or not, Hawke, that mage is an abomination!"

Hawke startles back, her head whipping over her shoulder and pinning Justice to the spot. He cannot recall a time that he has seen her appear so defenceless, so weak - tears swim in her eyes, her lower lip trembling with such fear. The sight robs him of breath. Regret rises to the surface, but he battles through it. She is not part of their cause, she is like the wind against the mountains, always there but powerless. She is not a mage.

"No, Cullen, please, I-I- he isn't a danger-"

"Isn't a danger!" the knight-captain scoffs. "Were it that simple! Look around you! You cannot mean for me to believe that this was all you, Hawke!"

"Are we invisible, again?" Varric asks behind them.

Justice does not understand the humor, yet the pirate chuckles either way. "Aren't we always?"

"A damnable curse, if ever I've heard of one," Alistair chimes. "But _think_ of what we could do with such a skill!"

"Enough!" Hawke shouts at them, her face transforming into a rage so beautiful that for a moment, Justice is swept away by it. "This isn't the time - Cullen, please. Don't report this to Meredith."

The knight-captain's face turns to stone, his eyes hardening as he stares down on her. "You ask too much, Hawke."

She straightens, her shoulders tightening as she draws herself up to her full height. "Too much?" A bitter laugh falls from her lips. "You _owe_ me," she growls under her breath, though Justice can hear her.

Her fingers fall to the ties of her jerkin, popping them open one by one before she slips it off, gasping quietly under her breath. From his position, Justice can see how she has aggravated her wounds, the back of her thin blouse stained red. He's sure this is what she means to show him, yet she continues, gasping as she struggles to remove it. He has seen these wounds before, but that does not stop the nest of anger curling within his gut.

She turns, her blouse held to her chest, eyes raking over him as she gives the templar the full view. Silently, she pleads with him to remain quiet, the request filling her teary eyes. It is a request he will not abide by.

"If you mean to shock me, I have seen such wounds before," he states, though his voice has gone breathless.

Justice nearly laughs, an interesting desire to do such a thing; of course the man has seen such wounds, likely been the cause as well. "The templars take pride in their ability to maim and destroy."

Hawke's eyes flutter shut and as she turns back to him, she lowers the top from her chest. Justice also knows what rests there. He has seen the mark that defiles her, the attempt the templars made at branding her. It had been fresh then, the slashes still seeping blood.

The knight-captain's face reddens when his eyes drop the final distance. Anger knots his face, his hand rising to rub his brow. That he offers contrition is intriguing, but likely false - a show, an act.

"Take him and go," Cullen bites out, turning away from the sight of her, fingers balancing precariously against the earthen wall as he steadies himself. "I cannot swear that Meredith will not hear about this... massacre, but I will not include Anders in my report."

"Thank you," Hawke breaths, her movements shaky as she struggles to redress herself. Eventually, the pirate steps forward and aids her, helping to retie the strings without wrenching her back. Anders will need to bind the wounds and Justice ensures to send that thought racing into the darkness of their thoughts.

"You misunderstand me, Hawke," Cullen murmurs as he turns, the pinch to his eyes smoothing when he finds her dressed and hidden once more. "He _leaves_, now."

The cavern falls silent, and the shock of these words finally allows Anders to break free of the hold Justice had on him, and he rises to the surface, his distress sweeping Justice back under the rug, back into the darkness.

How much he's missed, the sight of the templars strewn about their feet in a swath of death. The light ebbing from him fades and all at once, everyone turns to him. Hawke's face clears, a small glow forming behind her eyes. It softens something in him, his fingers unclenching at the sight of her. Whatever happened, at least she appears all right. A haze of thoughts steal his mind away, Justice's planning... something about _time_.

"Leave Kirkwall," Cullen says, his gaze straying over Hawke's head and spearing him, interrupting his attempts to sort through everything.

_Leave Kirkwall? _

Justice's memories are quiet, but effective as they now flood him. It seems he missed much, from slaying the templars to revealing himself to the knight-captain. Groaning, he staggers into the nearest wall, his eyes closing as he drops his brow against the stone wall, his stomach an absolute nest of emotions - he doesn't know which to settle on first; fear, anger, there are so many.

"What?" Hawke whispers. "Cullen, you can't just order him to leave Kirkwall-"

"I can, and I have," he states as Anders' head rolls over the stone until their gazes lock. Cullen speaks directly to him now. "You will if you know what's best for you. Otherwise I offer no guarantee for your safety," is all the templar says before turning and storming out of the cavern.

_Safety_ - he hasn't been safe a day in his life. What does it matter to him if the templars now know what he is? He'll kill any that dare touch him.

_Touch him_. But what about Hawke? They went through her last time and nearly destroyed her. His eyes close, his shoulders bowing. Justice... this is because of him.

The silence is uncomfortable, though Anders' thoughts are chaotically loud. _Leave Kirkwall,_ the words keep echoing over and over between his ears - _leave Kirkwall._ While the city has its problems, Kirkwall is home to both him and Hawke. More so for her, seeing as her mother just acquired their estate. A fresh start she'd wanted here, to protect her family. He'd known from the start he shouldn't have succumbed to being with her, only pain lay in that path. When he dares to open his eyes, he turns to find Hawke watching him, just as confused and upset as he. Cullen ordered him to leave, not her. That realization hangs in the distance between them.

For the first time in longer than he cares to remember, they are not in each other's arms - and for the first time, Anders wonders if that's for the best.

* * *

Such chaos; drawers yanked open and slammed shut, feet pounding against the marble floor as people rush to and from, grabbing what they can and tossing it in a pack.

Marian's pack.

Not moments after they entered her estate, thick with blood and grime, Isabela and Varric informed the others of all that happened. Anders had expected glares and harsh words flung at him, heated accusations and cruel insults, yet they hardly glanced at him. Aveline had been the first to curse under her breath, and it's her orders everyone is following now, packing Hawke's possessions.

As for her, she'd all but disappeared the moment they'd arrived. Not a word had been uttered by her on the hike back to Kirkwall. The entire way her eyes had been on the ground stretched out before them, her thoughts clearly miles away. Anders had been just as quiet. What could he say? What could any of them say? If he stays, the templars will come at him by any means necessary, likely through Marian. If he goes, he loses her.

Justice's thoughts are clear in his mind now. He'd spotted the opportunity to separate them, and taken it. And how Anders loathes him for such a thing. Bitter acrimony slips down his throat, and Justice reacts faintly, stunned by such a realization. Did he not stop to think that this would cause pain on both sides? Or had he only been concerned with the cause?

_The cause is all that matters_, Justice breathes through his mind.

_No, it's not. Not anymore_, Anders sighs.

"Pack whatever she has," Aveline orders, her hand sweeping around the room. "Quickly, she hasn't much time."

This draws Anders out of his funk. "Time for what?"

"I had thought perhaps you weren't as dense as you acted. It appears I was wrong," she mutters before ordering Fenris to gather food.

"Aveline," Anders growls. "What are you doing? He didn't order Hawke to leave-"

A low curse spills from her lips and Aveline turns, spearing him with burning eyes. "And tell me just what you think will happen when Meredith learns about what happened? More templars dead, and escaped mages? Do you honestly think she won't try to hang Hawke again?"

Fear drowns the bitterness he'd been suffering beneath. Aveline is right, he is dense. How could he not have realized the danger to her? Andraste's blood - Cullen had said he couldn't keep the report from Meredith, she will learn that Hawke had been there.

"But Varric, Isabela, and Alistair -"

Aveline's fiery hair burns around her shoulders when she shakes her head. "I doubt their names will be brought up. For some reason," she pins Anders with a glare, "the templars only care about her movements. I wonder why that is."

"So... you're sending her away," Anders whispers, his gaze trailing over her packed clothes, weapons, and little gear.

"I have no other choice," Aveline murmurs, pain smothering her voice. "Perhaps in a few years, things will be different and she can return."

"Years!" Anders repeats.

"This is not a problem easily solved," she snaps. "You two are insistent on slaying templars, I cannot protect against that. The Chantry will have her strung quicker than we can breathe. Where is she anyhow?"

Anders had watched earlier as she slunk up into the attic with a bottle of wine clutched in her hand. He'd opted to leave her to it, but perhaps she doesn't know what Aveline has planned. Does this mean... _could_ this mean that she'll come with him? "I'll find her."

"You do that," Aveline grumbles before returning to issuing orders.

His steps carry him quickly up the stairs, the well-cared for wood silent under his weight. Perhaps that is the only reason he hears talking, and he pauses to listen.

"I once told you to take your family and leave Lothering. Well, I'm telling you again," Alistair's voice lifts. "You need to leave Kirkwall, Marian, for your own good."

So it seems Aveline is not the only one to come to such a conclusion. Likely he is the only one that hadn't, too concerned with all that had happened, wallowing in his misery to see the truth of the matter. Anders tries not to let his jealousy overcome him, not with the impending situation, but he _hates _that the templar calls her such. Marian is meant for him and her mother - no one else.

"Still looking out for me, hey big brother?" Marian's voice rises next, though slurred. Could she have drunk so much already?

"Big brother?" Alistair repeats.

"Mm. Always looking out for me. I did the same for Carver."

Anders leans against the rail, his mouth crooking. Bet Alistair doesn't like that. He should interrupt them, but this conversation has become interesting and can't seem to find it in him to end it. Aveline is still packing; let them do it.

"There was a time when it would have killed me to hear you say that," Alistair sighs, the sound of him settling against the floor floating down the stairs.

Silence, then the heavy _thunk_ of the bottle touching down. "Was there never anyone else during the Blight?" A hiccup graces Hawke's lips and Anders chuckles silently.

"Just the one." There's heat to his voice now. "I think I'll always love her."

Anders' fingers grip the railing. He knows who this _one _is Alistair speaks of. And so does Marian.

"Do you miss her lots?" she asks.

"Every day. But... I don't think she survived the Blight."

"She didn't," Hawke whispers. "She died with her sister. Never made it out of Ferelden, it's a sad story, really."

"Funny, you look a lot like her," Alistair offers in a gentle voice, apparently tiring of speaking in riddles.

"I'm nothing like her. She was soft and caring, gentle with her family. She loved life, me..." Her voice trails off, the slurred words fading into the shadows. "It's a struggle just to make it through the next day. I thought -" she hesitates, her words dripping with sorrow now. "It doesn't matter what I thought."

Anders' eyes close, his hand rubbing against his brow. She still is that person, always will be - if faced with the same decision tomorrow, he knows she would help him climb that same tree to escape the templars. Both he and Alistair can see that.

"You're the closest thing to family I have, and even though it's different, I will always care for you and love you and I'll do anything you need," Alistair offers. "You didn't die... you just _changed_, became a stronger person."

Anders' jaw grinds; the templar is stealing _his_ lines, it should be him up there, talking with her, yet he hesitates. How will she take to being ejected from Kirkwall? Will she blame him? Had he not _let_ Justice out, perhaps Cullen never would have learned about him. Such a fool he is, and now, his future is up in the air, as well as hers. How could Justice think this is for the best? To remove him from the city he needs to be in?

Sighing, he droops against the banister, his thoughts a plague upon him. He's about to step up, end the conversation when Marian's drunken words lift again. "I see the way you look at her."

"Her, who?" Alistair's voice is a touch high.

"Her." A bubbly laugh graces Marian's mouth. "Akarra, Amell, whatever it is you want to call her. My cousin, you twerp."

"Twerp!" Alistair gasps. "My wounded heart."

"Ya, ya," Marian rambles, her soft sigh lifting through the rafters. "Don't evade my question, Warden."

_Akarra?_ Irritation wells in his stomach, what is it with this man and the Amell lineage? Hawke wouldn't play with him, so he resorts to her cousin, his friend? His fingers tighten against the banister; she's a mage, she would never - not with a templar...

But she had with Cullen... hadn't she?

"Was there a question in there? I didn't hear one." Alistair's voice rends his thoughts.

A _thunk_ lifts to Anders' ears and from their choking laugh, he can only imagine Hawke struck him.

"You are a twerp. Just... treat her well, Alistair," she sighs, her voice fading.

The approaching sound of heavy steps force Anders up the rest of the stairs, his presence effectively silencing the conversation. For the first time since they met, he is not welcomed by her bright smile and the hurt from such a thing weighs heavily on his chest. She drops her eyes to the bottle held in her hand, skimming the wording scrawled over the label.

How it pains him to see her like this, hurt and upset, because of him. There's no doubt in his mind that she took to drinking to escape him, and sighing, he crosses the attic. Alistair watches him warily, his eyes darting between him and Marian.

"I should... go. Yes, I'll go," he mumbles before bounding effortlessly to his feet and allowing Anders to pass him. Not a breadth away from her, yet he fears touching her, fears her words and her anger when she releases it on him. This is, after all, his fault.

The sound of Alistair leaving fades in his ears. All he sees is Marian, refusing to meet his gaze. Anders drops to his knees next to her, his hands curving over her softly rounded cheeks. Oh, Maker, but she flinches, so uncharacteristic of her.

"Marian," he whispers, unsure of what to say to make this up to her. But he knows, he will spend the rest of his life trying, should she let him. His fear that they would be separated seems trivial now, knowing that Aveline is intending to send her away from Kirkwall as well. How he wants to beg her to go with him, and he silently prays that for once Justice does not win.

The bottle of wine slips from her fingers, dropping with a heavy thump to the floor, forgotten in the moment with him perched above her. He bows down, their mouths a breadth apart as he gazes on her.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, finally lifting her face to his - those cobalt eyes clouded with drink.

Anders stills. _She_ is sorry? "Whatever for?"

"It's my fault. I killed Karras, I set those templars loose on us. If I hadn't, Justice wouldn't have come out, he wouldn't-"

He silences her with a heated kiss, her mouth hot against his. She tastes like sweet wine, and he drinks from her, devouring such a sapor. Never has wine tasted so delicious. Such a silly woman, to think that anything Justice does is her fault. When they break from the kiss, his lips tug upward at the sight of her flushed cheeks.

"Foolish," he chastises her gently. "I _let_ Justice come out. I could have stopped him, but I didn't. It doesn't matter whose fault it is, all that matters is that we're still here."

She nods, a watery smile flickering across her face. It's obvious she doesn't believe him, and still thinks herself as responsible. But now is not the time to convince her otherwise.

"Aveline wants you to leave Kirkwall as well," Anders whispers. "She fears the templars coming down on you. Come with me, Marian," he pleads, hoping his want and need of her shines through.

Her head tips back, a smile curving that tempting mouth. "Wherever you go, I will follow."

Elation springs anew within him and Anders stoops over, stealing another passionate kiss. There is much they need to do, and to ensure she can, he casts a rejuvenation spell, clearing the drink from her system.

"Where should we go?" he asks as he draws her up from the floor, chuckling at her fresh bright-eyed state.

She ponders for a moment, but finally a wicked grin spreads across her face. "Starkhaven."

* * *

_A/N: So **THIS** officially marks the end of Act 1 haha, I know it was supposed to be two chapters ago, but we all know how things get away from us occasionally :) And as you can see, I'm changing things up a little bit. I knew from the moment Sebastian was introduced this was going to happen, and I've been patiently waiting, and waiting, and waiting. So the three years between Act 1 and 2 will pass by in one or two chapters, we'll have to see, hopefully it won't be too long. But it's going to be exciting! _

_Drop me a line, lemme know what you think of this little change :D_


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

_Anders_

* * *

"Be safe," Anders whispers as he draws Akarra into his arms for a tender hug.

The feel of someone other than Marian is his arms is jarring; he rarely engages in such proclivities with anyone else. It's a startling realization that Akarra is very nearly his height, though the way they fit together feels a bit off. Marian always melds into his chest, her head tucking under his chin. This isn't the case here, and he has to reach up to brush Akarra's hair from his mouth. He's held plenty of women in his life, his amorous days privy to such a thing, but he and Akarra just did not meld. Quite humorous.

For the first time since meeting Marian, he wonders just who she gets her stature from. She'd once told him that Bethany had been of similar to Carver in many ways, another the same height as him. He can't imagine her taking after her father; the man had sounded larger than life, the way she describes him. Even Gamlen and Leandra are of similar height to Akarra; Marian appears to be the odd duck out. Yet, she'd been the one to step into the role of the protector the moment her father had been stolen from her. Ironic that she be the one to shoulder the brunt of the responsibility.

Akarra steps back, offering him a bright smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "And you."

Anders can't believe all she's offered them. Not only will she be running the clinic, but she's also agreed to aid the Mage Underground - a complete turnaround from the woman that had stood in Gamlen's hovel, accusing Marian of murdering those templars. Something has changed, though Anders isn't sure what could be the root of such a thing. And he hasn't found the time to discuss it with her, either.

Part of him regrets the distance. It's been so long since they'd been in each other's lives, it would have been nice to find the time to catch up, but all their lives have been utter chaos since Akarra entered the picture; from the templars to Marian's arrest. Afterward, all his attention has gone to healing her, not that he regrets that. Perhaps when they return, he and Akarra will find the time then. And he doesn't doubt for a moment that they will return. This is where Marian belongs.

"If you have any problems at all, you send word," he scolds her gently, unleashing the brunt of his stare until she laughs and nods.

"You're simply a letter away, I know."

"Well, and some mountains, a river, and -"

"Ya, ya," she teases, sounding more like Marian then either woman realizes.

His mouth crooks with amusement as his gaze strays past Akarra and onto Leandra, sobbing wretchedly against her daughter. Only at the last moment does he manage to tamp back an exasperated sigh. The last thing Marian needs right now is more guilt, but of course her mother is laying it on thickly, all but throwing a tantrum in the middle of the room, with all eyes on them. The aged woman shakes in Marian's arms, her rush of words indistinguishable at this distance.

"The lyrium is in the upper left cupboard," Anders begins to ramble, hoping to distract himself before he crosses the room and pulls Marian away. So much responsibility has been placed on her shoulders, it seems unfair for her mother to unload this burden on her as well. It seems whatever strength Marian possesses, it did not come from Leandra. "The herb is in the center-"

"Anders," Akarra scoffs, her tone of voice drawing his attention back to her. "We went through this already. Remember? You took me by the hand and led me through the cellar doors, into Darktown, and showed me were every last herb and potion bottle could be found."

His lips spread into a wide grin and his chin dips with a nod. "Starting to repeat myself, hey?"

Upon leaving the attic, Marian had taken her mother aside. Anders had known it would be a rather long conversation, so he and Akarra had sat together and fine-tuned the details. It's dangerous, what she's doing - stepping into his shoes and assuming the role of Healer of Darktown, but she'd been insistent, demanding that she aid them in any way possible. The mages in Kirkwall needed all the help they could get, and he loathed the thought of leaving them. Akarra is capable and would do well by them. So nodding, he'd slipped her his key to the cellar's entrance, one that only a few know about, ensuring that she wouldn't have to walk through Darktown to return to the estate. Her offer to remain here and watch over Leandra had eased a little of Marian's burden. Odd that he could see more in common between Akarra and Marian than he could Marian and her mother. The daughters of the Amell line are strong women, something he admires.

"Just a little," Akarra chuckles, nudging him with her shoulder to draw his attention back to her. "We'll be fine, trust me. I was taught by you. No one knows better how to evade the templars and how to take care of the people."

The grin falls off his face, his face stoic now as he watches her. Yes, he'd taught her so well. Yet, she'd fallen in with a templar the first moment his back turned. Not that he'd willingly given her his back, the templars had done that for them, and he still bore the scars. He scratches his forehead, refusing the dwell on something that cannot be changed. Though, if what Marian said in the attic is true -

His gaze strays to Alistair, watching as the templar slowly makes his way toward Marian before gently prying Leandra off. A gulping sob bursts through the room and before Anders can even blink, Leandra tosses herself into Alistair's arms, shaking against him as though Marian has died. Quite the show, one that grates on his nerves.

Marian steals a step back from her, and then another, her pace slow and controlled, but when she turns, Anders can see Leandra isn't the only one upset. Red-rimmed eyes snap to his, but she brushes away the offensive tears before they can fall. His lips press together; he knows she's trying not to show any emotion, that she feels the need to remain strong, for her mother, for her companions. The healer in him knows that isn't healthy, but like she'd listen to such advice.

"Well, Blondie!" A hand claps down on his arm, the dwarf's warm voice cutting through the thick tension. All eyes turn to him - storyteller that he is, his face simply lights up, his mouth curving lewdly. Varric lives for these moments. "Do I have to tell you to be careful as well?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Anders admits with a sheepish grin.

All this emotion, it's certainly something he is unaccustomed to. Torn from his parent's at such a young age, he'd always sworn he'd never let himself grow too attached to anyone, ever again - like _that_ worked. Before Marian, it had seemed a conquerable goal. Every time he'd escaped the tower, the other apprentice's had offered him well-wishes, but that had been the extent. They'd never let themselves trust. Then came along this pixie of a girl, dressed like a man that had braved the wrath of the templars to help an unknown apostate mage. He'd left her, his thoughts already swimming with her. She'd been the first person he'd ever felt an actual attachment to, even beyond Akarra. And when those bright eyes flick up to him, shining with unspent tears, he realizes it's who she is. These people surround her, cling to her, because she offers them what they've never found elsewhere. This little band of misfits is as close to family as he's ever come, and that realization seals his throat.

"Then, instead, I'll wish you happy dreams of killing templars and many blissful nights spent in Hawke's-"

"Varric!" Aveline grouses, her heated voice snapping through the common room.

The dwarf jerks, wide eyes swinging across the distance to the guard-captain. "What?" he groans. "Never any fun. Well, Blondie, I'm sure you _know_ where I was going with that."

Anders' mouth tugs at the corner. Oh, he can imagine the many different ways that sentence could be ended, but before he can respond, he's swept into a loose and awkward hug. The smell of leather envelopes him as Isabela's firm arms somehow manage to keep him at a distance, yet embrace him at the same time.

"I'm not afraid of man-hands over there," Isabela murmurs, though he can't help but notice how quietly she speaks. "So we wish you lots of wonderful nights spent between Hawke's legs."

Heat spreads over his cheeks, and when they break apart, he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, hoping his face doesn't give away just how awkward this is. Marian appears next to him, and startled, he coughs, hoping to hide the chuckle that hovers on his lips.

"Ready?" she asks, her voice thick with emotion.

Anders nods and pays a quick glance to those surrounding them.

"Then's lets be off."

* * *

Anders' breath steams in the moonlight, his fingers clenching around the frozen banister. From here, Starkhaven's landscape sprawls before him, stretching from the frozen Minanter River to the reposed mountains devouring the wintry sky. The pure, crystalline snow gleams beneath the stars as it blankets their roofs and shrouds their ground. Not a speck of ochroid fields or pasture lands remain. Winter has stolen every bit of land, locked it away, hardened it to the point beyond survival. Spring will come, and when it does, the ice will crack, the icicles will melt, and the land will return to the way it is intended. The world works in such mysterious ways - it is the natural course of life.

He sucks in a sharp breath, the frigid air stabbing his lungs. His head lifts and he takes in the land once more. It's rather quite beautiful, the endless white stretching as far as his eye can see; cold, heartless, bereft of life, yet supple, and delicate.

"How is Hawke?" a deep accented voice rises at his back.

Startled, Anders jerks and turns. He hadn't heard someone come out here with him. His eyes lift to Sebastian and his shoulders round. "Tired, but well. It's a long trip."

"Good."

Anders nods and returns to the view before them. "Thank you... for taking us in," he offers, dragging a hand through his loose hair.

"There's no need to thank me," Sebastian chuckles. "After all Hawke has done for me, this is the least I can offer."

Anders drops his hand back down onto the railing, his palm warming with fire. Water trickles to the ground, the icicles melting beneath his magic.

"Things were bad in Kirkwall," Sebastian's voice is quiet, his tone somber. "Weren't they?"

Anders sighs. "Yes."

Silence falls between them and with a heavy sigh, Anders lifts his eyes. There'd been a time where he'd wished for such a sight, to gaze over the land and be free. Standing here on the balcony of Starkhaven's heir, he feels as though such dream is within reach. Yet, he can't enjoy it.

"And you're hoping I can change that?"

The question of the hour, it seems. Starkhaven has few templars, but it's near enough to Kirkwall that they could easily come searching for them.

"It isn't as though she's in danger," Anders tells Sebastian. "Well... no more than any other day."

Sebastian's laugh is hollow. "I imagine one of Hawke's stature is always in danger."

Anders' lips crook. "You'd be right at that. I think had she not been forced from Kirkwall by her friends, she never would have left."

"Yes," Sebastian chuckles as he steps close to Anders. "Strong minded. I knew that the first moment I laid eyes upon her."

Anders' gaze sweeps to the side, studying the prince next to him, searching for the intent that he speaks these words with. If Hawke has collected yet _another_ man, he will pack their bags in the morning and seek elsewhere. He's had enough of that with Alistair, but thankfully, there's no emotion shadowing Sebastian's face. Anders' shoulders slump and he releases a long breath.

"So... what are you doing out here?" Sebastian asks. "One would think you are plotting."

His hair slides about his shoulders as he shakes his head. "I'm sure you've noticed I'm a mage," Anders murmurs, catching the slight nod from the prince. "Growing up in the Circle, I'm not one for being locked inside stone estates. This one is large enough that it might just rival the tower I grew up. I came out here to calm my thoughts."

"We all have our demons," Sebastian states softly. "Conquering them is the hardest challenge of our lives. They wouldn't be demons otherwise." His hand claps down on Anders shoulder, a gentle smile tugging on his mouth. "You and Hawke are welcome here as long as you need. I can speak with Hawke in the morning about the finer details, but I dare say there is plenty of room here for the both of you."

"Thank you," Anders' bows his head. "I don't know how long she intends to remain. I fear what awaits her if we return to Kirkwall."

He studies the prince once more, debating how much to tell him. If the man is to protect them, he must know the truth and the danger he may be in should the templars come knocking.

"The city is in disarray," Anders offers. "And Hawke is caught up in it. The templars... well they're different there." His skin warms with the thought of them, the remembered images of Marian strung from the scaffolds flooding his mind. "Let us just say, they have not hesitated to bring her harm in the past and they will likely kill her should they get their hands on her. I won't allow that." He pins the prince with a burning stare. "Not for anything. She is my life."

Sebastian nods. "I am not blind, my friend. One moment in either of your presences taught me that." His voice fades and he stares out over the powdery landscape. "The two of you remind me of my parents," he says softly. "Such dedication to one another. It is... touching to watch. Painful, as well." He turns, his boot heels thumping against the stone balcony as he trudges back inside. "Goodnight, Anders."

Anders' eyes track his path, his feet cutting a swath through the snow as he slips back inside, stomping his boots against the floor to rid them of the dampness. Sebastian's words echo through his head and a smile tugs his lips. Dedication; if there is anything he is to Marian, it's dedicated. What wouldn't he do for her?

Brushing his hair back from his face, he steals a final glance at the roving cityscape before following in Sebastian's wake, dusting his feet off before heading down the corridor and slipping into their room. The sight of her, draped across the bed, the sheet pooling around her waist, his smile spreads. Soft flames from the hearth burnish her curves into a deeper bronze. In the passing days, her back has begun to heal nicely, the criss-cross of stripes sealing into welts. The first few nights of travel had been uncomfortable for her, the cold seeping into the wounds, but with time comes healing, and they are certainly over the hump. He only wishes there is more he could do for her.

He crosses the floor silently and lowers down next to her, his body curving around hers. A soft, simple sigh spills from her lips as she gently rolls over, fingers fetching into his jacket. Perched on an elbow, he draws his thumb across her jaw, his fingers curling over her cheek. Flawless skin, he's thankful he'd been able to heal some of what the templars did to her.

"Mm," her voice rises from the pillow. "You're still awake?"

Suddenly he doesn't feel tired, not with her stretched naked next to him, her warmth begging to be shared. "No," he whispers playfully. "This is the Fade. You're asleep."

A low laugh graces his ears and her hand finds its way under his shirt. At the touch of her warm flesh, he feels a stirring within him, one that he hopes never fades. A surge of want quickens his pulse, his breath catching when she stretches up toward him and slides his jacket off his shoulders.

"Usually if you're with me in the Fade, naughtier things than this are happening," she grins.

Anders laughs and ducks down, brushing his lips along her temple. "You seem to be feeling better."

"Well I'm not," she mutters darkly.

He draws back from her, concern pulling down his brows. "You're not?"

She turns onto her back, the sheet hiding her breasts from his view. "No, I'm not. You have to make it better."

His brow darts skyward. "And how can I do that?"

Her nose scrunches playfully, her fingers walking up his chest. "I'm sure you can think of many ways to make me feel better."

Oh, _sweet baby Andraste_. His fingers find the hollow of her throat, grazing over the swell of her breasts, slowly drawing the sheet down. She puckers, and a groan catches in his throat - it's far too warm in the room for her to be cold. He dips, his mouth about to claim hers when he pauses. This will be their first time together since the templars, and trepidation fills his veins. Should they? Is she ready? The last thing he wants is to injure her further...

"Anders," she whispers his name, so full of adoration that it draws his gaze up to hers.

Sky-eyed, he feels as though he's falling into them, her touch the only thing keeping him grounded. They shine with emotion, his own rising to the surface as he claims her mouth in a gentle kiss. He shifts back to remove his shirt, lost to the sight of her heavy lidded eyes and softly parted mouth, lips glistening.

Her previous teasing is stricken from her face as she reaches up to brush her thumb against his lower lip. It's never been like this between them, gentle and loving. Before now, it's always been about sex and teasing and need. Oh, the need is still there, but it's different, stronger, deeper.

Fingers curve over his cheeks and draw him down, her hot mouth devouring his. He caresses her neck as she deepens the kiss, his thumb pad catching against the strip marking her once unmarred shoulder. A careless whipping, the tongue of one of the tails must have caught her shoulder. He releases her mouth and turns his eyes toward the offensive marking, his thumb caressing the surrounding hale skin.

"Anders," she murmurs again, her voice a touch breathier than before.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," he says in a thin tone. They've discussed this before, but he can't help it.

She meets his eyes, polite enough to allow him to finish. Before she can speak, he lowers down, his mouth dragging over her collarbone, his tongue laving at the oldest mark; the bolt she'd taken at Ostagar. She's a tapestry of scars that speak more about her character than anyone else's. His lips pass beneath the edge of the sealed wound, careful not to touch it, and she shudders. His lashes feather his cheeks as he concentrates on his ministrations. It's obvious these lesions cause her distress, and he wants to heal her of that. When Cousland struck her down at the dinner table, he's never seen her stagger back like that, slow to respond. The Marian that had been taken by the templars would have cut the man down where he stood, but the Marian that came back simply crumpled. He would not have that, not for anything. It isn't who she is. The wounds they left her with run far deeper than any stripes. Determined to fix it, he loses track of how long they lay there, his mouth on her skin, kissing and smoothing away the internal scars.

His lips leave her and he crawls back up the length of her body, continuing with his apology. "I'm sorry Aveline made you leave Kirkwall, because of Justice, because of me."

Nothing could have stunned him further when tears spring to her eyes. He thumbs the dampness away, caressing her cheek.

"I'm not," she whispers finally, stark fear shining out of those shimmering eyes as her hands slides through his hair. "Because I'm here with you, that's all that matters."

His heart jumps in his chest, his voice vanishing when his throat closes. He offers a vulnerable smile, his hands catching hers as she continues to brush his hair back, small kisses raining down on her fingertips. There's one scar left unaddressed, the one that causes him the most pain to look upon. At the last moment, his eyes lift to hers, catching a shaky smile before he ducks down and lays his mouth against the disfigured skin. What he would give to undo these marks, to remove the scars from her flesh. If they'd gotten to her not a day earlier, it's likely he might have been able to heal them entirely. His tongue traces the aged welt, anger surging within him. Tamping it back, he meanders south, his lips brushing over her nipple.

Hawke's gasp is sharp, her back bowing off the bed as her hands come up to snare his hair. The sound, the motion, the _feel_ of her breaking beneath him shatters his anger and he rises once more, dropping back down over her scars. They'll always be a part of her and all he wants is to show her that he'll love her no matter what. Her words from days ago, when she'd admitted she'd feared he'd no longer love her, hard determination fills him, to show her that nothing in this world could ever make him leave her.

"Anders..." His name is different yet again, heat and want thickening it this time.

His eyes flick up, taking in her flushed face and closed eyes. Her tongue darts between her lips, dampening them as her hands cup his neck and lifts him to her. Their mouths come together, a sensual dance that begs fulfillment in an entirely different way.

Her trembling hands strip him of his remaining clothes and before he can even breathe, he's sprawled next to her, the fire suddenly not enough to keep him warm, but his gaze drops to the ardent woman beneath him. The wicked gleam to her eye ensures him she will drive the cold away.

Anders' fingers sweep down the length of her body, coming to a stop between her legs, grazing across her center. Her dampness astounds him, the heat evident that she's ready for him. He can't, not in this position, not yet. As though reading his mind, Hawke's weight shifts and she stretches up on the bed, her knees straddling him as she guides him down atop the bed, her fingers running down his chest.

She hovers above him, his tip positioned perfectly, but she pauses, her hands running up the length of his arms. She pins him with a look, one that kindles his magic, and Anders stops breathing, falling victim to the rush of his magic scouring his veins. Maker, he'd always longed to find a woman to watch him with such longing and need - for a look to spurn his magic and kindle his power. And here she is. HIs breath wavers, the pleasure within overwhelming, and his hands ghost up her sides, thumbs catching her nipples.

She lowers down onto him, silken folds conforming to his length.

Anders' breath catches, the feel of her sliding over him pulling on a torturous groan. They hover together, his body tense as he struggles to keep from moving, hers lax as she bends over him, hands pressing into the pillows on either side of his head. She catches his mouth in an open-mouthed kiss, her tongue moving against him, how he wishes for it to be something else. It's unbearable, the need for to have her, to move within her, after what feels like so long.

His arms snakes around her waist, about to start moving within her when she lifts and suddenly finds a slow rhythm. It's agony, this pace she's set, gliding over him again and again. Every shift, every thrust, warmth envelopes him, getting hotter as she spears herself on him. He can't take it. He wants to go easy and be gentle, but Maker, how he wants her, needs her... He reigns in his control, his eyes closing as he struggles not to take charge. He draws in a wavering breath, his resolve weakening every time she pumps over him -

He can't take it. Fingers gripping her waist, he's about to shift, to move beneath her, when her pace suddenly shatters, quickening to the beat of her heart. His eyes shut in wild fervor, his chest loosening when she relinquishes control; not to him, but in general. Her breath catches, her body shuddering each time they come together, as she tightens, her hips rolling sinuously over him. Oh Maker, the way she moves, the grace conjured daily that she brings to the bedroom; the daring, the challenge, one he longs to rise to and does, hips meeting her halfway. The sounds she makes, like music to his ears, her soft sighs and sharp gasps as she gives herself to him. Mindless need burns through him, encouraging him to explore deeper. His name spills from her lips as she clenches around him, her body tightening and trembling as pleasure carves her face. It's enough, it's _always_ enough, and he's already so close. Her hips drive down one final time and he gives in to his own ecstasy, his senses stolen by the fervid rush of satisfaction. He buries himself as deep as he can, and hangs there, riding out the lingering sensations, his shallow breath pooling against her throat.

It feels as though an eternity passes before they find their way out of the warm nest they'd created amidst their passion. Anders draws Marian down over his chest, resting her head beneath his chin, his hand spread gently over the expanse of her back, careful not to injure her.

For the first time in a long while, there's no risk of them being interrupted by any companions, no fear of the door bursting open at all hours of the night, the air filled with soft demands and quiet complaints. The change of pace is relieving and Anders gives himself over to the quiet, his lips brushing against her hair as her breathing deepens. It's taken them so long to find this semblance of peace, he won't let anything ruin this.

Perhaps exile won't be so bad after all.


	43. Epilogue

_**A/N: I didn't realize that due to this being a chapter 'already posted' that those that reviewed it once before can't review again unless doing so anonymously (should you wish to, which of course you do not have to). Apologies.**_

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**Epilogue**

_Varric_

* * *

Varric threads his fingers over his chest, twirling his light dusting of hair, as he settles into the high-backed chair the seeker had callously tossed him into.

"Do not play games with me, dwarf. You haven't begun explaining how she became the Champion - surely you don't think me to believe the story ends here."

He eyes the dark haired woman prowling the floor restlessly before him, wondering just how much longer he can get away with this mindless spinning. Surely Hawke would laugh if she were here to listen to his woven tale. Blondie would absolutely get a kick of it - yet the seeker is absolutely falling over herself to hear his words. Hero worship, he's seen it before, he'll see it again.

How many times has he stood before the masses and preached how Hawke had slaughtered a dragon with one hand while juggling babies, puppies, and kittens in the other? He could tell the seeker that Hawke fought the nug humping Arishok in a pink tutu and she'd believe him.

Amusement curls his lips back. Now, _that_ isn't too bad of an idea.

"Oh, we're just getting started," Varric chuckles as he scratches lightly at his chin.

What's next? Some mad tale about their favorite broody elf and his slavers - oh, the seeker will_ love_ that. Perhaps continue his previous tale about how the Champion's closest friend became a templar - yes that had been a stroke of pure genius.

His previous tale comes to mind and with a soft chuckle, he continues to twist his words, choosing to lead Cassandra down a path of darkness and betrayal. _Great Ancestors_, he _needs_ to remember all he's telling her; it'll make a _fantastic_ addition to his latest piece.

Maybe one day he'll tell the real story of Hawke and Anders, if the two lovebirds don't kill him first.

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_A/N: So some of you may be confused by this. But here's the thing. It's a good thing! I've been picked up by a publisher (YAY! that's what I've been working on throughout most of the posting of this story) and have quite a bit of work to do with them now. They want me to write a few things for them, so unfortunately that means that I can't put the focus into Shadows and Feathers that is required. _

_However, I loathe uncompleted works. So after a week of pondering, and scheming, I HOPE I came up with an acceptable alternative. Doing it like this leaves me the option of coming back to finish this story later, should I find the time to do so. _

_Chapters 43 - 50 were removed as they were the beginning of Act 2, and I reverted to Chap 42 (edited) as the ending. Then threw in this epilogue. _

_I do hope everyone is understanding about this choice, but I've always wanted to be a published author, and have been given that opportunity so I need to see it through. __Footprints in the Sand I will be continuing as there are only about 7 chapters left and the chaps are short. _

_After that, I hope to do some one-shots now and again._

_Further to that, should you be interested, I've created a twitter account under my pen name that's been agreed upon by the publishers and myself. So if you wish to follow me to find out when it's published, and any future endeavours of mine, you can follow me at Gwen_Knight2._

_Thank you so much to everyone who has followed along with this story and any others of mine. You guys are seriously what gave me the courage to go ahead and attempt to do this. You guys are amazing. _


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